


Lust For Life

by Fayaheda



Series: Sterek Collection [17]
Category: Pulp Fiction (1994), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Ennis (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Beta Kali (Teen Wolf), Beta Peter Hale, Boxer Chris Argent, Character Deaths, Comedy, Comfort, Crime Lord Sheriff Stilinski, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Derek Hale, Criminal Peter Hale, Drug Dealer Malia Tate, Ex-Hunter Chris Argent, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fluff, Hitmen/Hitwolves, Hunter Brett Talbot, Hunter Corey Bryant, Hurt, Love, Magic, Magic Junkie Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Mild Sexual Content, Mistletoe Junkie Lydia Martin, Murder, Nice Kali (Teen Wolf), Nice Peter Hale, Overdosing, Recreational Mistletoe Use, Recreational Wolfsbane Use, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Still a Banshee Lydia Martin, Still a Kitsune Kira Yukimura, Still a Sherriff, Still a Werecoyote Malia Tate, Strong Violence, True Alpha Derek Hale, Wolf Derek Hale, Wolfsbane Junkie Derek Hale, Wolfsbane Junkie Kira Yukimura, Wolfsbane Junkie Malie Tate, blood/gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fayaheda/pseuds/Fayaheda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski feels guilty for working all of the time and never having time for his one and only daughter; Stiles. So, while he's away on another business trip, he hires a certain werewolf to "entertain" her. So, of course, things get way out of hand...</p><p>Or, the one where I pretty much rip of Pulp Fiction, but with love. (:</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genim

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I started at work the other day while I was bored shitless. It's basically me ripping off one of my favourite films of all frigging time.
> 
> Anyways, lemme know what you think?
> 
> Thanks! (:

Derek straightens out his tie with his free hand, his other on the steering-wheel as he cruises leisurely in his smooth, black Camaro through the town of Beacon Hills. It's his childhood home, but he hasn't been back since the Kate and the fire and the deaths of almost all of his family.

All, but one.

That one is Peter, who sits in the passengers side right beside his nephew.

"I don't know why he makes us wear these cheap-ass suits."

Peter smirks as he replies, "Well, do you wanna wash blood out of your own clothes?" His smirk widens when the Alpha huffs.

They ride along in comfortable silence for a little while, until Peter grows bored again. "So, tell me about the hash bars." He grins, a mischievous twinkle in his bright blue eyes. "You left that part out."

"What'd you wanna know?" Derek asks easily, open to discussion.

"Well, hash is legal in the 'Dam, right?" Peter arches a brow, though, he thinks he already knows the answer. He hasn't been to Amsterdam like his lucky nephew, but he reads a lot.

"Yeah," Derek shrugs. "It's legal, but it's not totally legal, if you understand what I'm saying?"

"Enlighten me."

"Well, I mean, you can't just walk into a restaurant or a department store or whatever, light your shit up and just start puffing away." Derek explains, eyes never leaving the road ahead. "Really, you're only supposed to smoke in your home or at certain designated places."

"And those are the hash bars?" Peter asks.

"Right." Derek nods. "It basically breaks down like this; it's legal to buy, it's legal to own it, and if you're the proprietor of a hash bar, it's legal to sell it. It's also legal to carry it - which doesn't even really matter, because - and this is the best part -" He smirks over at his uncle, who looks all too intrigued. "If the cops stop you, it's illegal for them to search you. Searching you is a right that cops don't have in Amsterdam."

"Well, that's it, man," Peter grins. "I'm fucking going. First chance I get. And that's all there is to it."

"You'll love it, I'm telling you."

"Oh, you don't need to tell me another thing."

Derek chuckles. "But y'know what the funniest thing about Europe is?"

"What?"

"It's all of the little differences." Derek says, wears a light scowl. "I mean, a lot of the shit we get here, you can still get over there, sure, but their's is just a little different."

"Examples?"

"Well, in Amsterdam, you can buy a God damn beer in a movie theatre. And I don't mean in a paper cup, neither. They give you a fricking glass, like they do in a bar. And in Paris, you can buy a beer in fucking McDonald's."

"Shut your ass."

"I'm not kidding." Derek grins, bright green eyes twinkling with amusement. "And y'know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?"

"They don't call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?" Peter arches a brow, looks rather bewildered.

"No." Derek scoffs. "They got the metric system over there, they wouldn't know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is."

Peter snorts. "So, what'd they call it?"

"A Royale with Cheese." Derek says smugly.

Peter snorts again. "A Royale with Cheese?"

Derek nods.

"And what'd they call a Big Mac?" Peter asks, still looks intrigued.

"A Big Mac's a Big Mac." Derek shrugs. "But they call it Le Big Mac."

"Le Big Mac." Peter chuckles, shakes his head. "What'd they call a Whopper?"

"I dunno." Derek shrugs casually. "I didn't go into a Burger King. But y'know what they put on French fries in Holland instead of ketchup?"

"What?"

"Mayonnaise."

"Ugh." Peter wrinkles his face in disgust. "God damn."

Derek chuckles at his uncle's reaction. "I've seen them do it, man, I swear. And I don't mean like, a little bit on the side, neither, they fucking drown them in that shit."

"That's just fucking nasty."

"Yep."

+

Peter waits patiently beside his partner in crime, as always. Derek's his only family left, now.

Derek opens the trunk of his Camaro and pulls out a two .45 automatics. He loads and cocks both weapons before passing one to his uncle.

"We should have shotguns for this kind of deal." Peter complains, even pouts.

Derek rolls his eyes. "How many are up there?"

"Three or four, maybe."

"Counting our guy?" Derek asks.

"Not sure."

Derek shoots the older wolf a withering look. "So, there might be five guys up there."

"It's possible." Peter nods.

Derek glares at him. He then, growls out, "We should have fucking shotguns." before closing the trunk.

+

Derek follows loosely behind Peter as they make their way into the apartment building.

"What's her name?" Derek finally asks.

"Genim. But she likes to go by 'Stiles'."

Derek briefly thinks that's an odd name. But he's more interested in finding out about her.

As a client, of course. This has absolutely nothing to do with the photo he saw in her father's office...

"What does she do?" Derek asks, starts out small.

"I don't know. I think she's an actress or something." Peter says, clearly uninterested by this conversation. He's got other things on his mind though.

Derek hums thoughtfully, then curiously asks, "She ever done anything I would've seen?" And his mind absolutely doesn't think of the filthiest porn...

"Eh," Peter shrugs lazily. "I think her biggest deal was some pilot she starred in one time."

"What's a pilot?" Derek looks confused.

Peter shoots him an "are you serious?" look.

Derek merely stares back at him, still confused.

"Well," Peter huffs, shakes his head in dismay as he presses the button for the elevator. "Y'know the shows on T.V?"

"No. I don't watch T.V." Derek says, standing beside his uncle as they wait.

"Jesus." Peter mutters. "Yes, but you are aware that there's an invention called the television, and that on that invention, they show T.V. shows, right?"

"Yeah."

Peter purses his lips - his nephew is exhausting! And infuriating! "Well, the way they pick shows," He carries on calmly, controlling the urge to punch the Alpha in the face. "They make one episode of a show, and they call that a pilot. And then, they show this pilot to the people who pick the shows. And on the strength of that one episode, they decide if they wanna make more episodes. Some get accepted, and they become T.V. programs, and some don't, and become nothing. She starred in one of the ones that became nothing."

Derek nods in acknowledgement and the two of them walk into the elevator.

Peter presses the button for the thirteenth floor as he casually asks, "Do you remember Vernon Boyd? Half African, half Samoan. They used to call him Vernon Rocky Horror."

"Yeah, maybe. Fat guy, right? The one that turned down McCall when he offered the bite?"

"Well, yeah." Peter scowls. "But I wouldn't go as far as to call him fat. He may have a little bit of a weight problem, but he's Samoan, so what's he gonna do?"

Derek scoffs, smirks, clearly amused. "I think I know who you mean anyway. So, what about him?"

"Well," Peter pauses dramatically. "Stilinski fucked his ass up real good. And word around the campfire is; it was on the account of his daughter."

Derek gulps silently, but he's still intrigued, nonetheless. It's a wolf's nature, after all. "What'd he do? Fuck her?" He doesn't know why he feels a twinge of jealously by that idea - he hasn't even met her yet - but he does and it annoys the hell out of him.

"No, no, no." Peter wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Nothing that bad."

Derek nods, feels relief, annoyingly. "Well, then, what?"

Peter grins gleefully as he answers, "He gave her a foot massage."

"A foot massage?" Derek looks confused.

Peter nods, grin widening. "Yep."

"That's all?" Derek's now feeling a little terrified.

"Yep." Peter nods, still grinning.

"And what did Boss do?" Derek's both intrigued as he is horrified to find out.

"He sent a couple of guys over to Boyd's place. They took him out on the patio of his apartment, and threw his ass right over the balcony."

Derek's eyes widen slightly. He is so dead if he fucks his next job up. Or fucks his job, literally...

"He fell from four stories." Peter shakes his head. "And they had this garden at the bottom, encased in one of those glass greenhouses - poor bastard fell right through it. Since then, he's kinda developed a speech impediment."

"That's a damn shame." Derek says, calm and collected. 'Holy shit!' He thinks on the inside, panics, almost.

Finally, the elevator stops and the doors slide open. Peter files out first, Derek lopping closely behind and then beside him as they walk loosely down the dimly lit corridor.

"Still," Derek airs lightly. "I have to say; play with fire, and you're gonna get burned."

"What'd you mean?"

Derek shoots him "are you serious?" look before replying, "You don't give John Stilinski's only daughter a foot massage. Not unless you're stupid anyway."

Peter arches a brow. "You don't think he overreacted? Not even a little bit?"

"Well, Boyd probably didn't expect Boss to react the way he did, but he had to expect a reaction." Derek shoots him a pointed look.

"It was a fucking foot massage." Peter shoots him a pointed look right back. "A foot massage is nothing. I used to give my mother a foot massage."

Derek scoffs. "It's laying hands on John Stilinski's daughter in a familiar way. Is it as bad as, say, eating her pussy out? No. But you're still in the same fucking ball park."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop right there!" Peter stops walking, grabs his nephew's shoulder and makes him stop, too. "Eating her pussy out, and giving the smartass bitch a foot massage is nowhere near the same thing."

"Not the same thing, but the same ball park." Derek reminds him, as if it's that simple.

Peter looks at him as if he's insane. "It's not the same fucking ball park, neither!" He snaps, growing more frustrated by the minute. "Look," He takes a deep breathe to calm himself down. "Maybe your methods of a massage differ to mine, but touching his daughter's feet, and then, sticking your tongue into the Holiest of Holys is not the same fucking ball park, is not the same league, is not even the same fucking sport. Foot massages don't mean shit."

Derek stares blankly back at him for a few moments before calmly asking, "Have you ever given a foot massage, Peter?"

Peter blinks, then, laughs, sarcastically. "Please don't try to tell me about foot massages. I'm the foot fucking master."

Derek arches a brow, bites back a smirk. "You given a lot of them, then?"

"Shit, yeah." Peter scoffs snootily. "I've got down my own unique technique and everything, man." He states proudly. "I don't tickle or nothing."

Derek nods, then, still holding back a smirk, he asks, "Have you ever given a guy a foot massage?"

Peter blinks, realises he's been set-up, and then glares at his so-called darling nephew. "Fuck you." He huffs, then, walks off.

Derek chuckles, follows after his sulking uncle. "How many?" He ask, teases, no longer holding back his smug shit smirk.

"Fuck you." Peter growls out, not even bothering to look at the younger wolf as he storms down the long-ass corridor. Seriously, does this thing go on for-fucking-ever?

"Would you give me a foot massage? I'm kinda tired. Haven't slept for five days." Derek holds back a laugh, though, he's still smirking.

"Man, you best back the fuck off, 'cause I'm getting real pissed, now." Peter grunts, glaring at the Alpha.

Derek chuckles, but decides to finally show mercy as they finally stop.

"This the right door?"

"Yep." Derek nods. "Seventy-four."

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

"It's not quite time, yet. Let's hang back for a little bit."

Derek nods, follows after his uncle, their weapons still hanging loosely in their hands.

"Look," Peter huffs as they walk aimlessly down the long corridor. "Just because I would never give a man a foot massage, doesn't mean that it makes what John did to Boyd right. He threw him off a fucking roof and into a motherfucking glass greenhouse, fucking up the way the poor kid talks." He growls out angrily. "If the evil asshole ever does anything like that to me, he better hope he fucking paralyses or kills me, 'cause I will kill the motherfucker."

Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying he was right, but you're saying a foot massage don't mean nothing, and I'm saying it does. I've given loads of ladies loads of foot massages, and they all meant something. We act like they don't," He shrugs casually. "But we all know they do. That's what's so fucking cool about them. This sensual thing's going on that nobody's talking about, but you know it, and she knows it. Fuck, even Boss knows it. And Boyd should've fucking known it, too. I mean, that's the man's fucking daughter. He's not gonna have a sense of humour about that shit."

"Hmm." Peter pauses thoughtfully. "That's an interesting point." He huffs, shakes his shoulders and arms loosely. "But c'mon, let's get into character."

Derek nods. "Stiles, huh?" He makes a face. "Weird name."

Peter arches a brow. Now, he's interested, because - "Why're you suddenly so interested in the boss' daughter?"

Derek shoots him a withering look when he grins suggestively. "He's going on some business trip in Tokyo, in two days time, and while he's away, he wants to take care of her."

"Take care of her?" Peter arches a brow, looks rather surprised. "Y'mean, like -" He gestures with a invisible knife, pretending to slit his own throat.

"No, no. Not that." Derek scowls, shakes his head. "Just, like, take her out and stuff. Show her a good time, buy her loads of crap, make her happy and all of that other shit."

Peter smirks. "You're gonna be taking Stiles Stilinski out on a date?" He laughs, highly amused, obviously.

"It's not a date." Derek scowls at him, almost glaring.

"Uh-huh."

"It's not a date." Derek now full-on glares at his uncle. "It's more like when you take your buddy's wife out to see a crappy movie or something. It's just..." He shrugs. "Y'know... Good company..."

Peter blinks, merely stares at him.

However, Derek insists, "It's not a date."


	2. Very Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, yeah," Derek smirks, nods as he closes the briefcase. "We are very happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear Derek and Stiles meet real soon! ;)
> 
> Lemme know your lovely thoughts?
> 
> Thanks for reading! (:

Where Peter's the smartass, Derek's more of the muscle as he kicks the front door in with one forceful hit.

And thankfully, there are only three hunters in the room, not five. Who all sit at a breakfast table, all unarmed and eyes wide, like little deer caught in the headlights.

Derek brushes himself off and steps aside to let his uncle in first.

"Well, hello there, children." Peter grins widely, brightly, pleasantly, even, as he slowly saunters into the room.

Derek slowly walks in after him, both his and Peter's weapons hidden in their pockets. For now.

"And how're we all doing on this glorious morning, hm?" Peter chirps, standing in front of the trio.

The hunters glance timidly between one another, none of them daring to speak. Of course they know what this is about. Damn!

For the moment, Derek stands by the front door, locks it behind them for good measure.

"Am I going crazy here, Derek, or did I just ask them a question?" Peter arches a brow, glances over his shoulder to his nephew.

"You're not going crazy." Derek simply says, his intense and annoyed gaze locked on the trio of hunters.

"Didn't think so." Peter grits out, narrowing his eyes at the one he knows is the leader.

"U-uh, we're doing o-okay." Brett answers, mentally cursing himself when his voice wobbles.

Derek becomes bored, already, stalks slowly, aimlessly around the room, picking various things up and just simply filling his time.

Peter nods, satisfied with the answer. "Do you know who we are?" He asks, motions theatrically to both his nephew and himself.

"No." Brett shakes his head. Although, he has an inkling.

"We are associates of your business partner; John Stilinski." Peter says, shoots them a pointed look as he adds, "You do remember your business partner, don't you?"

Brett nods, looks down to his lap in shame almost.

Peter almost scoffs, but he is a professional. Most of the time anyway. "Now, I'm gonna take a wild guess here and say that you're Brett Talbot. Right?"

Brett simply nods again.

"I thought so." Peter nods. "Well, you do remember your business partner; John Stilinski, don't you, Brett?" He asks again, a little more firmly, bitterly almost.

"I remember him." Brett's voice is barely above a whisper.

"Speak up, Brett. I can't quite hear you." Peter snips. "And I'm a werewolf."

"Yes," Brett raises his voice, just a little. "I remember him."

"Oh, good. Good for you." Peter nods, clearly patronising the young hunter. "So," He chirps, brightening up suddenly. "It looks like Derek and I caught you eating a spot of breakfast. We're very sorry about that." Total lie, obviously. "What're you all eating?"

"U-uh, h-hamburgers." Brett gulps down the lump of fear clogging up the back of this throat.

"Hamburgers." Peter chuckles, shakes his head. "The cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast. What kind of hamburgers?"

"Cheeseburgers."

"No," Peter shakes his head. "I meant, where did you get them from? McDonald's? Wendy's? Jack-in-the-Box? Where?"

"Big Kahuna Burger..."

"That's the Hawaiin place, right?"

Brett nods.

"I've never had one myself, but I've heard they're good." Peter nods in approval. "Am I right? Are they good?"

"They're good." Brett nods.

"Well, good." Peter nods. "I mean, I've never had myself. And even though I'm a werewolf, I don't usually get to eat meat. Natalie; my girlfriend is a vegetarian, y'see, which, more or less, makes me one, too."

Brett simply nods in acknowledgment, not daring to speak unless asked to.

"Do you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?" Peter asks all too casually.

"Uh, n-no..." Brett answers as the others shake their heads in response when the wolf glances towards them.

"Tell them, Derek." Peter says, doesn't even bother looking away from the hunters.

"A Royale with Cheese." Derek answers as he continues to nosely snoop around.

"A Royale with Cheese." Peter nods. "Do you know why they call it that, Brett?"

"Uh... B-because of the m-metric system?" Brett asks rather than answers, hopes for his life that he isn't wrong.

"The metric system. That's right." Peter nods, arches a brow and looks slightly impressed. "Check out the big brain on Brett. You're one smart motherfucker."

Brett smiles sheepishly.

"So," Peter glances towards the other four hunters. "Any of you boys know what Derek and I are here for?"

"Yes." A small, timid voice pipes up.

"What's your name, pipsqueak?"

"Corey..."

Peter nods, looks pleased. "Okay, good, Corey. So, you want to tell my boy; Derek where it is?"

"It's under the -"

"I don't remember asking you, Brett." Peter scalds the eldest hunter.

Brett instantly clamps his mouth shut and shrinks back into his seat.

"You were saying, Corey?" Peter asks calmly, glances expectantly at the youngest, smallest of the group.

"It's under the couch." Corey supplies, can't get his fucking words out quickly enough.

Derek makes his way over to the couch. He crouches down, peeks underneath and sure enough, it's there.

"How original." Peter says, eyes dancing with amusement as his nephew rises to his feet with a metal briefcase in hand. "Check it."

Derek nods, holds the briefcase up and slips it open just enough to see inside for himself.

"Are we happy?" Peter asks, arches a brow.

Derek can't help staring at it, it's so fucking beautiful, like nothing he's ever seen.

"Derek!" Peter snaps, glares at his nephew.

Derek tears his eyes away. "Huh?"

"Are we happy?" Peter asks again, looking rather impatient this time around.

"Oh, yeah," Derek smirks, nods as he closes the briefcase. "We are very happy."

"Good." Peter nods, finally satisfied.

"Sir, what is your name?" Brett pipes up, suddenly finding the last of his courage.

"What're you doing!?" Corey hisses at him.

"I got this." Brett shrugs him off, glances back to the elder wolf. "I got his name; Derek. B-but I never got yours..."

"As far as you're concerned, my name is Mister fucking Tattybojangles, and you're definitely not going to talk your stupid ass out of this." Peter snarls, voice low, just on the edge of shifting.

"N-no, that's not -" Brett's eyes widen. "I just wanted to say how deeply sorry we are about fucking things up with Mr. Stilinski."

"That's Sheriff Stilinski." Peter scalds.

"Of course, Sheriff Stilinski." Brett nods furiously, barely keeping his shit together. God, he just knows he's going to die today. "But I can assure you that when we entered this contract with him, we only had the best intentions and -"

As the idiot hunter talks, Peter calmly reaches around to grab his .45. He doesn't hesitate then, as he proceeds to shoot the man in the foot.

The two other hunters, Corey included, both gasp and stiffen in their seats, eyes wide with terror.

Brett, however, screams out in pain, clutches his now bloody foot as he slides out of his seat and sinks onto the floor.

Derek smirks to himself, clearly enjoying the show. Well, it's hilarious, he thinks, totally not sorry.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did I break your concentration, Brett?" Peter asks, voice all too sickly sweet. "No, please, continue. I believe you were saying something about 'best intentions'."

Brett can't say a word, because he has literally just shit his pants with fear. He simply whimpers and whines as he continues to hold his hands over the large bullet hole oozing with blood.

Derek winces a little at the putrid smell quickly filling his sensitive nose. He really doesn't know how his uncle can still stand so close. Well, other than the fact that they're both professionals here.

"What's the matter, Brett?" Peter asks far too pleasantly.

Brett doesn't dare to answer.

"Oh, you were finished? Hm?" Peter scoffs loudly and slowly lowers his gun to his side, for the moment anyway. "Well, do allow me to retort." He says, a little bitter lacing his tone. "What does John Stilinski look like?"

Brett blinks.

Peter decides then to play the rabid werewolf card. He launches forward and with one hand, hauls the entire breakfast table against the wall, smashing it to pieces.

It gets the desired reaction, all hunters scrambling to their feet. They're riddled with fear and unarmed at this moment. Perfect for a werewolf.

Brett glances up at the wolf as he now stands right in front of him, eyes wide and filled with terror.

"What country are you from!?" Peter snarls, now pointing the .45 back in the hunter's face.

"W-what!?" Brett squeaks, literally petrified.

"What isn't any country I've ever heard of!" Peter growls, voice growing louder and angrier as he speaks more and more. "Do they speak English in What?"

"W-what!?" Brett yelps out, practically crapping himself all over again.

"English, motherfucker! Can you speak it!?" Peter snarls, louder, fiercer. Oh, how he loves to act. Seriously, he knows he would have been a famous movie star if he wasn't such a well-paid hitman - or hitwolf.

"Yes!" Brett supplies, finally pulling his reeling mind together. Or attempting to anyway. It's a very difficult task when you've been shot.

"Then, you understand everything that I'm saying." Peter assumes, growling with agitation.

"Yes!"

"Good." Peter grunts out, calms down, just a little. "Now," He breathes deeply. "Describe what John Stilinski looks like."

Out of fear and confusion then, of course, Brett can't help answering another; "W-what!?"

Peter snarls loudly, crouches down and presses the barrell of the .45 against the hunter's sweaty, flushed cheek.

Brett trembles, literally, body shaking and breath stuttering as he tries not to have a fucking another panic attack on top of the one he's having now, or a fucking heart attack.

"Say 'what' again!" Peter snarl loudly. "Say it again! I dare you! I double-dare you, motherfucker!"

Derek merely rolls his eyes, slowly growing bored now. After all, none of this is anything new to him.

"Now," Peter composes himself again, voice calm again as he repeats his words slowly and clearly. "Describe, to me, what John Stilinski, motherfucking looks like."

Brett takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the white, hot pain throbbing in his entire limb, now and then opens his mouth and does his "motherfucking" best. "W-well... He's, uh... He's about your height, I-I guess... He's Romanian..."

"Go on." Peter nods his approval.

"He's... Human?" Brett knows that, but he doesn't know what the fuck else to say without getting shot in the fucking face. To be plane and simple, the guy is the most evil motherfucker Brett's ever encountered.

"Right." Peter nods, then, calmly asks, "And does he look like a bitch?"

Without thinking, Brett predictably replies with a shaky; "W-what?"

Peter's eyes slowly darken as he glances over to Derek, who's smirking smugly, clearly very amused.

Brett's eyes widen as he gulps silently.

Peter turns his gaze back to the hunter and without hesitation, for the second time, he raises his gun and fires another shot into the hunter's other foot.

Brett howls and screams in pain, blood spurting all over the floor and himself. He screams more and more, the pain slowly and achingly settling in as his limbs begin spasm lightly.

Derek chuckles silently, shakes his head at the poor bastard.

"Does John, Stilinski, look like, a motherfucking bitch!?" Peter snarls loudly and clearly, just one more time before he actually puts the little shit out of his pathetic misery.

"N-no!" Brett wails out in utter agony and through blurry-eyed tearfuls as he struggles to clutch both his bloody and sticky feet.

"Then, why did you try to fuck him like one?" Peter asks, voice now lower, calmer.

"I-I didn't... Oh, God... Please..." Brett cries, voice trembling along with his entire body. Among other things, he feels so fucking cold, knows that he needs a fucking hospital. That is, if he fucking gets the fuck out of this shithole alive.

He doesn't.

None of them do.

Well, all, but one...

"Yes, you did, Brett." Peter says accusingly. "Yes, you fucking did." He nods. "You tried to fuck him real good. And you almost did." He says, points a finger, but looks slightly impressed, also.

"P-please, I -"

"You nothing. No more talking. Derek." Peter shuts him down immediately, then, slowly raises his .45, one last time.

Derek nods, silently retrieves his own .45 from his belt and aims it at the other hunters, who all cower in fear.

"Please," Brett's eyes widen. "PLEA -"


	3. Protect My Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do know you." John's voice turns serious again. "Which is why I'm trusting only you to protect my daughter, while Scott and I are away."

"When all of this shit is finally over and done with, I think you're gonna find yourself one smiling, motherfucker."

Chris simply sits in his seat in front of his boss' desk, silent, unless asked to speak. He knows how the Sheriff/Crime Lord loves to hear himself talk. Almost as much as Gerard does, he thinks, amused.

"The thing is, right now, you've got ability, you've got potential. But painful as it may be, ability doesn't last, never does. And now, that's a hard motherfucking fact of life." John states as he leans back in his large, comfy, leather chair. "But it's a fact of life your stupid ass is gonna have to get realistic about."

Chris bites his tongue, wills himself not to retaliate. Even if he's not afraid of Stilinski, he knows his life wouldn't be worth living if he tried or even succeeded in killing the evil, old bastard.

"This business we're in, it's filled to the fucking brim of stupid, unrealistic motherfuckers, who thought their asses would age like a fine wine." John huffs out a laugh, shakes his head. "Besides," He cocks his head, smirking smugly at the ex-hunter/boxer. "Even if you did decide to go all the way, what would become of you, huh? Feather-weight champion of the entire world?" He scoffs. "Who gives a shit? I mean, really? I doubt you could even get a decent mortgage on that salary."

Chris doesn't care, though, because he's already decided. The hunter life isn't what he wants anymore, not since he lost his daughter, the most precious thing in the world to him.

John sighs loudly when he doesn't get an answer. But that's okay. He's fine with it. Chris can retire, he can do whatever the fuck he wants, just as long as he does this one last thing for his boss. You know, just for all time spent, that is.

Chris watches the elder man slowly reach for his drawer before slapping a large, brown envelope onto the desk. The ex-hunter/ex-bounty hunter silently reaches forward, peers into the envelope to see his payment in full. He closes the envelope, shoving into his jacket and gives his boss and curt nod.

"Now, on the night of the fight, you may feel a slight sting. That'll be your pride fucking with you. Well, fuck pride!" John exclaims, wearing a slight scowl. "Pride only ever hurts you, it never helps you." He shoots the younger man a warning look. "And you better fight through that bullshit, 'cause a year from now, when laying back on the pretty Caribbean beaches, or wherever the fuck you plan on running off to, you'll be saying, 'Oh, shit! Jonathan Stilinski was right.'"

Chris finally pipes up with; "I've got no problem with any of that."

"Well, good for you." John says, voice rather patronising, but still also deadly serious. "So, as it is said; your ass will go down in the fourth round."

Chris nods. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, boss."

"Now, say it."

"My ass will go down in the fourth round."

"Alright." John nods, then waves a dismissive hand. "Now, get wait your ass right there for a minute, I gotta make a phone call."

Obediently, Chris does as his told. But that's okay, because he knows that it's the last thing he'll ever do for his boss. Besides, he has nothing else to lose, so what the hell?

+

"I still can't believe you shot that poor kid in the face." Peter shakes his head in dismay as he lights up his first cigarette of the day.

"It wasn't my fault."

Peter scoffs. "Who doesn't put the safety on their piece when they're fucking driving? You moron."

"It wasn't my fault! You're the one who told me to take the road with speed-bumps!" Derek hisses out, hands gripping the steering wheel. "Besides, I handled it, it's done, so stop your bitching."

Peter let's out another scoff along with a cloud of smoke, but otherwise, keeps his mouth about it.

"You don't think Boss will be pissed off, though, right?" Derek asks after a few moments of silence.

Peter chuckles at his darling nephew. "Nah, it'll be fine. Corey was a nobody."

"Okay, good... Good." Derek nods, takes a deep breath to calm himself down. It's not that he's afraid, only he really fucking is. He knows his boss, maybe not as well as his uncle does, but he knows him well enough to not fuck with him. Ever. Period. Seriously. He doesn't want to die. At least, not anytime soon.

"You'll be fine with Stiles, stop fretting." Peter shakes his head, and only smirks when the younger wolf glares at him.

Derek quickly reaches for his phone in his pocket when he feels it vibrate and pales considerably when he sees who it is. He takes a deep breath again before answering. "Hey, Boss."

"Derek. Are we good?"

"Oh, yeah," Derek grins at the metal briefcase sitting in his uncle's lap. "We're good."

"Good, boy. That's what I like to hear."

"Anytime, Boss. You know me."

Peter rolls his eyes, smirks in amusement at his nephew ever brown nose.

"I do know you." John's voice turns serious again. "Which is why I'm trusting only you to protect my daughter, while Scott and I are away."

"Of course. I'll guard her with my life, sir." Derek's voice turns serious, too. He really, really, really doesn't want to fuck this up. It could literally mean the end of his life.

Peter arches a brow, finally interested enough to hone his keen hearing to earwig on both sides of the conversation.

"I know you will, that's why I chose you." John says, sounding genuine, which is kind of a rare thing. "Anyway, I'm leaving in an hour. I've told Stiles you'll knock for her, then. But first, I want you and Peter to bring the goods to me. I'm at the station. Don't take too long."

"On our way, Boss. Ten minutes."

"Good. Make sure it is."

+

True to his word, Derek pulls the Camaro up in the parking lot of the station. Peter hands him the briefcase, then, follows loosely after his nephew as they walk towards the front entrance.

As always, Jordan's standing at the door, the boss' guard hellhound, and little kiss-ass assistant. "Derek, our man from Amsterdam." He grins broadly, hold out his hand.

"Parrish." Derek grabs his hand in firm shake, and gives the younger man a curt nod.

Jordan leads them into the station, where at this time on a Friday evening, there are only a few other police officers scattered around, all busying themselves with whatever work they have left.

"So, where's the big man? In his office?" Derek asks as he follows loosely behind the deputy.

"Yeah." Jordan nods. "He's just finishing up some business. Wait here." He motions towards the small seating area just outside the Sheriff's office.

Derek and Peter nod, and walk over to take a seat.

"Who's he with? Anybody we know?" Peter asks, curiosity, as usual, getting the better of him.

"Chris Argent?" Jordan looks slightly confused, as if he's not quite sure.

"The boxer guy?" Peter arches a brow, looks slightly impressed.

Derek, however... "Who?"

Peter instantly glares at his nephew. "I give up on you. Seriously. I've had it up to here -" He points to his forehead.

Derek merely rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, he's a boxer as well as an ex-hunter, I think." Jordan still doesn't look all that convinced by his own supply of information. "Anyway, hang back here until you see him leave the Sheriff's office, and then, you can go in. In the meantime, however, can I get either of you gentlemen an expresso, while you wait?"

"No." Derek scoffs at the thought. "But you can get me a regular American coffee, if that's alright?"

"No problem." Jordan nods. "Peter?"

"Water, thanks." Peter nods politely.

"You don't even like water." Derek scalds him. "You just wanna sound grown-up."

Peter glares at him. "It's healthier than coffee."

Derek merely scoffs loudly and rolls his eyes.

Nonetheless, Peter's glaring is relentless on his so-called nephew.

"Oh!" Jordan swirls back around, eyes lit up in excitement. "I heard you're taking Stiles out on a date?" He wiggles his eyes brows suggestively and grins slyly.

Peter chuckles, obviously very amused, also.

Derek glares up at the stupid hellhound. "At her father's request. And it's not a date."

Jordan snorts, looks highly amused as he asks; "Have you even ever met Stiles?"

"Not yet." Derek says, keeping himself collected and calm as he does. If he bites, then, that'll just prove them right and he'll never live it down. God, he hasn't even met her and already he seems to be infatuated with her. He is so going to die. Seriously.

Jordan's grin only widens at the werewolf's response.

"What's so funny?" Derek bites out through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing a little.

"Not a God damn thing, my man." Jordan shakes his head, but can't help smirking to himself.

"Look," Derek snaps, glaring at both men when they giggle like little girls. "I'm not an idiot, okay? She's the big man's motherfucking daughter, his only fucking offspring, and the most precious fucking thing to him. So, I'm gonna go pick her up, take her wherever she wants to go. If I take her to dinner, then so be it, I'll sit across from her, chew my food with a closed mouth, laugh at her stupid fucking jokes, then, take her home. And that, is all I'm gonna fucking do."


	4. Wolfsbane is Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Wolfsbane is rising up like a fucking empire." Malia goes on as she places all three bags back into the case. "Even the humans are buying it, now. Mistletoe's also good, but I think that one's more of a acquired taste, because of the blackouts."

Derek and Peter finish their coffee and water just in time to see their boss' office door open.

Chris walks out, closes the door quietly behind him before walking over to Jordan, who suddenly reappears to collect the empty cups.

"Hey, Chris." Jordan smiles, expression ever bright.

"Hey, J." Chris gives the younger man a curt nod. "You still sell green?"

"Oh, yeah." Jordan nods, reaches into his back pocket. "I got Amnesia or Lemon Haze. What'd you need?"

"Gimme the lemon, two dimes." Chris says as he reaches into his pocket for the envelope filled with cash. He pulls out three fifties and swaps them for the two bags.

"Thank you very much." Jordan chirps, shoving the money and other two bags back into his pocket.

Chris finally takes notice of a certain werewolf staring curiously at him. "Got a problem, friend?" He asks, arches a brow.

Derek scoffs, then, sneers out, "I ain't your friend, twinkle-eyes."

"Derek," Peter shoots his nephew a withering look. "Leave it alone."

"I'd listen to him." Chris warns, smirks lightly.

"What was that, peachey!?" Derek snarls, taking a step closer to him.

"You heard me just fine, wolf-boy." Chris retorts, smirk only widening when the wolf growls.

Peter sighs tiredly, but thankfully, they're interrupted by the boss.

"Derek! Peter! Get your furry asses in here!"

With a huff, Derek backs down. He shoots the hunter one last glare before walking over to the office door.

Peter follows closely behind and closes the door quietly once their inside.

"Ah, my boys!" John, as usual, is (most of the time anyway) always big smiles and happy work boss when it comes to his two "guard dogs". Of course, he's never shy about his feelings, and always openly shows favouritism over the two wolves.

"Boss." Derek gives a curt nod. He hates being touched, but nonetheless, he allows the Sheriff to stand up and engulf him in a hug, not to mention the weird European handshake and kiss cheeks thing. Which, of course, makes him all the more uncomfortable, but there's nothing really that he can do about it.

Peter, however, never has any problem as he openly embraces his boss in return and even settles a kiss on both his cheeks in return.

Although, Derek thinks he does it only to annoy him. Which is probably accurate. Like always.

+

When Derek leaves the station, he races home, has a shower, changes into a clean suit and is back on the road with another half hour to spare before he has to go knock for Stiles.

Derek decides, "fuck it" and quickly heads towards his little cousin's house. He's already really nervous about tonight anyway, so maybe, well, he figures anyway, that it can't hurt to get him a little something to help him relax. Besides, he thinks, only trying to make himself feel better, Stiles knows who he is, so she has to know he's probably not a total fricking square.

Five minutes later, Derek pulls up the Camaro in her driveway and hops out. He walks over to the door and knocks, and doesn't have to wait long until someone opens it.

A very attractive Asian woman with long dark hair and pretty brown eyes to match stands in front of him. Though, most of her skin is covered in tattoos, and most of her face covered in piercings, too.

She looks vaguely familiar to Derek, though, he admits, he's mostly always half baked when he comes round here, so he wouldn't remember anyway.

"Can I help you?" She huffs out when he doesn't say anything, only stares curiously at her.

"Uh, yeah, I'm Derek. I'm -"

"Oh, right! You're Malia's cousin." She nods firmly, opens the door widen to let him in.

"Right." Derek nods as he enters. "Thanks."

"She's in the shower. She'll be with you in a minute." She tells him as he follows her into the living room where another woman, a redhead sits, sprawled out lazily on one of the couches.

"No problem." Derek says as he makes himself comfortable of the love seat.

Kira plops down on the opposite couch, spreading herself out.

Derek huffs as he decides to lose the stupid tie, and shoves it into his blazer pocket.

"Hey, uh," Lydia mumbles. "What were you saying about that thing?" She scowls. "I can't even remember what we were talking about..."

"Wha -" Kira glances to her, eyes then, lighting up. "Oh, yeah! Remember the book we were talking about?"

Lydia slowly smiles in realisation. "Oh, yeah."

Kira grins. "I'll lend it to you when I go find it later. It's a great book on body piercings."

Derek arches a brow, but other than that, doesn't really pay attention, isn't really interested, to be fair.

"Well, I know they use the gun when they pierce your ears."

Kira scoffs. "Forget the gun. The gun goes against the entire idea behind piercings. All of my piercings, all sixteen of them, every one of them done with a single needle. Five in each ear, one through my left nipple, one of my left nostril, one of my left eyebrow, one through my bottom lip, one through my clit... Oh, and I wear a stud bar through my tongue. Funny, how that's the only one I ever forget about completely."

Derek has been just sitting, simply letting their conversation ease through one ear and out of the other. That is, up until that last part. Which, for some reason, peaks his curiosity. "Excuse me?" He leans forward in his seat.

Kira turns her head to face him, but otherwise makes no other movement.

"Sorry to interrupt." Derek says. "I'm just curious - why do you wear a stud bar through your tongue?"

Kira shoots him a look that tells him the answer should be obvious. And when he simply stares blankly back at her she huffs out, "It's a sex thing. Duh. It helps when your performing oral sex. Like... A lot."

That though had never crossed Derek's mind, but he has to admit that it makes perfect sense.

+

"Derek! You can come in, now!"

Derek hauls himself out of the love seat and onto his feet before making his way to his cousin's bedroom. He closes the door behind him and it happy to see she's at least dressed in a large sweater and some shorts - because the coyote has no fricking problem strutting about naked, in front of anybody!

"Been a while." Malia quickly wipes away the remnants of the regular ("normy") purple powder from her nose and sniffles loudly.

"Been busy." Derek says. And this is what he loves about his baby cousin, that he can just be himself and that, more importantly, they don't have to talk much most of the time.

Malia nods in acknowledgement, shoots him her usual bright grin. "Missed you, big guy. You were a big hit at my last house party. Jenny and Isaac have been asking after you."

Derek smiles lightly. "Well, lemme know when you're putting on your next gig and I'll be there."

"That's a done deal, daddy-O." Malia's grin widens, pupils now blown.

Derek chuckles, shakes his head. "So, what've you got for me?"

Malia makes her way over to the bed and pulls out a large suitcase from underneath it. She places it on the bed and all, but tears it open.

Derek walks over and stands beside her, eyeing up the various large, packed bags of all different kinds of coloured powder. He feels like a fucking kid in a fucking candy store right now.

"Jesus." He mutters as Malia reaches for a bag of lime green powder. "Beautiful, aint it?" She chuckles at his wide-eyed, awe-filled stare.

"'Beautiful' ain't even close, bub." Derek grins back at her, only managing to tear his eyes away for a second or two.

Malia grins, motions to the bag she's holding as she says, "Now, this is Chinky Panda, from Mexico."

Derek arches a brow.

"I know," Malia scoffs. "It's totally racist, but what're you gonna do?"

Derek merely shakes his head in dismay.

"Anyway," Malia continues, "It's pretty good stuff. I mean, it'll definitely get you were you need to go." She puts the bag down and picks up the white powder. "This is Bawar, from Egypt, which is different, but it's also pretty good. And this," She puts it back, and grins widely as she picks up the black. "Is Chakka, which is from the mountains of Tarthorn - not to be confused with Tarthern - of the demon world, Pylea, and lemme tell you, cuz - it will blow your fucking mind away!"

"Go on." Derek arches a brow, looks very intrigued, to say the least.

"Okay," Malia grabs a bag of each. "I'm selling in ounces again, because fuck new school. For these two," She motions to the green and white bags of powder. "It's the regular price. But for this one," She motions to the slightly smaller bag containing black powder. "Thirty percent more."

"Thirty?" Derek scoffs, looks slightly outraged.

"Yeah, but trust me," Malia shoots him a mischievous grin. "When you shoot it up, you'll definitely know your money was well spent."

Derek sighs. "Lemme see the other two again."

Malia hands the two bags over for him to look at. "Nothing wrong with them. They're really, really good. But I'm telling you, man, this stuff," She points to the bag in her hand. "Was made by fucking madmen for madmen."

"You do remember that I just got back from Amsterdam?" Derek arches a brow.

Malia scoffs, because really? He really thinks his own cousin would try to fluke him. Ugh! Typical man! "Hey!" She snips, glaring at him. "Am I cunt? Do I have 'cunt' written across my forehead? Are we in your shitty side of town? No. We're in my neighbourhood. And the people in my neighbourhood know the difference between good shit and bad shit, and those people also know that this is the place to come to if they want that good shit." She retorts snootily. "And just so you know, I'll take the Pepsi Challenge with Amsterdam shit any ol' fucking day of the week."

Derek arches a brow, bites back an amused smirk. "That's a bold statement, Tate." He says, handing both bags to her.

Malia scoffs again. "This ain't Amsterdam, Derek. This is a seller's market. Cocaine? Heroine? Pff! All that shit is as dead as fucking disco. Although," She adds thoughts. "Weed is still a big hit. It's just easy, y'know?"

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Wolfsbane is rising up like a fucking empire." Malia goes on as she places all three bags back into the case. "Even the humans are buying it, now. Mistletoe's also good, but I think that one's more of a acquired taste, because of the blackouts."

"Alright, fine." Derek finally makes his decision as he reaches into his inside jacket pocket for his wallet. "Gimme five bags of the madmen."

"Alrighty." Malia nods, and begins to sort the bags out for him.

"And if it's as good as you say, I'll be back for twenty bags on Monday." Derek says as he pulls out six hundred dollar bills.

"Well, I'd save it for you, but this shit's selling really fucking fast." Malia notes as she swipes the money from him and hands him the five bags in one large bag.

"It's fine. If you run out, just lemme know if and when you get anymore in." Derek says as he pockets his little stash.

"No problem." Malia says. "Oh, hey, what'd you think of Lydia? She ain't got no boyfriend. You maybe wanna hang out for a while and get high?"

"Sorry, bub, I got a client to get to. Some other time."

"No problem." Malia repeats easily.

"Which one's Lydia anyway? Is she the one with all the metal shit on her face?" Derek asks, just because he's curious, that's all.

"No, that's Kira. That's my wife." Malia glares at him.

Derek smiles sheepishly. "Right... Kira... Your wife..."

Malia rolls her eyes, but says nothing more about it as she packs up the suitcase and shoves it back under her bed.

"Oh, uh, you mind if I shoot up in here real quick before I go?"

Malia shakes her head. "Go for it, man. We're already wired. Seriously, I think Lydia's been here for a week, now."


	5. Don't be a Sourwolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Of course they do. Don't be a sourwolf, now, handsome." Stiles chirps, shooting him a far too of flirtatious smile before hopping eagerly out of the car.

Needless to say, when Derek leaves his cousin's house, he's a lot more relaxed as he cruises the Camaro through the town at a leisurely pace. This is just what he needed, he thinks with a dopey smile as he finally pulls up outside the boss' mansion. After sticking that needle in and pushing that plunger down, all of his worries about probably being murdered for even thinking of the boss' daughter are pretty much nonexistent.

Derek practically slips out of the car and shuffles slowly over to the front door, where he sees a small note tapped to the letter box. He grabs it, opens and reads it to himself.

'Hi, Derek!  
I'm just getting dressed.  
The door's unlocked.  
Make yourself at home.  
Stiles.'

Derek simply does as he's told and let's himself in as he folds the note and puts it in his pocket even when he doesn't know why he does it. The wolf closes the door quietly behind him and thankfully, having been here a handful of times already, he easily makes his way through the large hall/lobby and into the large and lavish living area.

Derek shuffles around, sways lightly on his feet as the "madmen" slowly take him over, more and more. But it's nothing he can't handle. In fact, he's going to fucking kiss Malia when he sees her again, that beautiful bitch!

"Derek,"

Derek's head snaps up towards the small speakers plugged into each corner of the room, the intercom. "Hello?" Even over the speakers, her voice does naughty things to him that he immediately tries to suppress. For his own good, of course.

"I can't hear you unless you speak into the intercom, silly."

Derek ignores her little giggle, and absolutely does not feel his cock twitch uncomfortably in his slacks.

"It's on the wall behind you, by the two African fellas."

Derek turns around and spots just what she's talking about. He slowly walks over to it and leans forward before repeating himself. "Hello?"

Again, Stiles giggles before replying. "Press the button if you wanna talk."

Derek does as she instructs and again, repeats himself. "Hello?"

There's an obvious smirk in her voice when she answers, "Go make yourself a drink and I'll be right down with you in two shakes of a lambie's tail."

Her voice is so smooth that Derek can feel his skin heating up. Or that might just be the wolfsbane, but still, she is definitely doing something to him. Well, she's doing a lot of things to him, actually.

She ends with, "The bar's by the fireplace." before the intercom finally cuts out.

Derek unconsciously licks his lips and nods, even though he knows she can't see him. "Okay."

+

Stiles grins to herself, watching the wolf through the eyes of one of her daddy's African fellas, and through magic, of course.

He's not like anything she expected. He's certainly a lot more attractive. Which is a good thing, she thinks. A very good thing...

But hey, she thinks, at least he's not a total square, if the way he sways over to the bar is anything to go by.

He picks up the bottle of Scotch without even hesitating and Stiles continues to watch him with deep intrigue and fascination.

+

Derek pulls the lid off of the glass tumbler and takes a curious sniff. He arches a brow, smiles gleefully to himself as he grabs a clean glass and pours himself some out.

+

As 'Dancing in the Dark' by Bruce Springsteen plays in the background, Stiles cuts up her lines of Plorus dust - a mild form of real life pixie dust. She lines all four up and leans forward, sniffing up each one after the after without even needing to use a straw.

"Ohhhh, yessss!"

Stiles giggles loudly to herself, her face flushed and her eyes slightly glazed over.

+

Just as Derek finishes the last of his drink, he hears someone clear their throat. He turns around and there she is, complete with those insatiable cock-sucking lips and a blinding smile.

"You like?" Stiles does a little twirl for him in her favourite red cocktail dress.

"Uh... Yeah." Derek's rather gobsmacked, but he works really hard to hide it.

"Good." Stiles grins, practically fucking beams, and the wolf really doesn't know how he's not fucking blind right now. "Now, let's go, handsome wolfman."

Derek watches her twirl back around before bounding off back out of the room and thinks to himself that he's so fucking fucked that it's fucking unreal.

Seriously...

Jesus.

...

Christ.

+

Thanks to Stiles' naturally over-active hyper personality, the pixie dust calms her down a little bit, where as one regular humans, it would send them about three times as crazy as regular ol' speed does. So as she sits in the passenger's seat, she's glad to know that the wolf looks like he's also on some really good shit to calm himself down, too.

They don't talk at all, apart from when Stiles gives directions.

And when Derek pulls up outside a building with a large neon sign reading; 'JACKRABBIT SLIM'S' he simply has to ask; "What the fuck is this place?"

"This is Jackrabbit Slim's." Stiles says with a bright smile, as if they both can't see the sign, bless her. "An Elvis man should love it." She adds, shooting him a knowing grin.

"Well," Derek fights back the urge to grin, too. "Do they serve steak here?"

"Of course they do. Don't be a sourwolf, now, handsome." Stiles chirps, shooting him a far too of flirtatious smile before hopping eagerly out of the car.

This time, Derek can't help smiling to himself before he, too, hops out of the car and locks it up.

"Decided to join me, sexy wolfman?" Stiles' grin widen, brightens, and - how is that even fucking possible? Seriously!?

Derek's glad she can't hear his stupid, traitor, piece of shit heart. Nonetheless, he assembles himself and even manages a charming smile as well as an answer; "Of course. After you, pretty kitty-cat."

+

The restaurant is pretty much packed to the brim, but Stiles' father obviously has connections, so they're lead to a table, smack-dab, in the middle of the joint.

"Hi! I'm Buddy Holly. I'll be your waiter for this evening." The young man says as the two take their seats inside of an old-fashioned, 60s, pink Cadillac. "So," He says, pulling out his notepad and pen. "What can I get ya both?"

"Let the lady order first." Derek says, holds a hand up towards her.

Stiles arches a brow, looks slightly impressed. "Well, thank you, kind sir, but I haven't decided yet. You go ahead."

"Alright." Derek nods, pulls up one of the menus and scans it quickly, already knowing what he wants. "Ah, here we are. I'll have a Douglas Sirk steak. In fact, make that two. Put it on one plate."

"Righty-O." "Buddy Holly" nods, writing it down. "How do you want it? Bloody as Hell or burnt to a crisp?"

"Bloody as Hell."

"Drink?"

"Extra large vanilla coke." Derek says as he places the menu neatly back in its holder.

"And how 'bout you, Peggy Sue?" Buddy turns to Stiles.

"I'll have the Durwood Kirby burger, bloody as Hell, and a five dollar shake." Stiles says easily as she places her menu back and leans back in her seat.

"How do ya want the shake? Martin and Lewis or Amos and Andy?"

"Martin and Lewis."

"Alrighty. Be back in a jiffy."

"Did you just order a five dollar milkshake?" Derek looks slightly horrified.

"Sure did." Stiles grins, and he almost hates how easily she seems to look right into his fucking soul. With her God damn whiskey, dolly eyes!

"A milkshake? Milk and cream?"

"Uh-huh." Stiles looks slightly lost, now.

"That cost five dollars?" Derek looks equally as confused, maybe livid. He's getting old, now, it can't surely be his own fault anymore.

"Yeah..." Stiles nods, blinks.

"You sure they don't put bourbon or anything in it?" Derek asks, narrows his eyes suspiciously as he glances over to the crowded bar.

Stiles chuckles lightly. "Nope."

"Alright." Derek nods, sighs and leans back in his seat. "Just checking."

Stiles smiles, still so fascinated by this creature with pretty greeny-bluey-every-God-damn-thingy eyes and adorable bunny teeth and seriously illegal amounts of sinewy muscle...

Fuck, shit, fuck...

She's so screwed...

Or is she?

Who says she can't have a little fun?

She thinks she deserves it anyway.

As they wait for their orders, Stiles smiles as she watches the wolf curiously watching their surroundings.

"So, what'd you think?"

"What do I think?" Derek looks at her, smirks lightly. "I think it's like a wax museum with a pulse rate."

Stiles rolls her eyes, but can't help smirking, too. Well, she thinks, at least he has my kind of sense of humour. And it really does help how easy on the eyes he really is.

Especially up close.

God damn.


	6. Kooties, I Can Handle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Kooties, I can handle." Stiles says, voice low and eyes glued to the wolf as he carefully takes a small sip of her Martin and Lewis.

As they continue to wait for the orders, Derek reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small pouch of tobacco and begins to roll himself a smoke.

"What're you doing?" Stiles asks sceptically, staring curiously.

"Rolling a smoke." Derek says without looking up.

"Here?" Stiles looks slightly surprised.

Sure, she can tell he's a badass - what with working for her father. But he doesn't really seem like the trouble maker just for the sake of trouble kind. He seems more quiet, reserved, annoyingly. Mysterious? Definitely. Sexily, even. Though, still annoyingly.

"It's just normal baccy, don't worry." Derek shoots her a small smirk.

"Oh." Stiles nods. "Well, in that case - will you roll one up for me, cowboy?"

Derek's eyes connect to hers as he licks the paper and finishes the roll-up. "You can have this one, cowgirl." He shoots her his best charming smile as he holds it out to her.

Stiles grins brightly as she takes it off of him and places it between her cherry-red lips.

Derek reaches back into his pocket before producing his trusty Zippo lighter. He flicks it open and lights in easily all in one fluid motion, then, holds the flame up for her.

"Thanks." Stiles blows smoke out of her nose as the words blow out of her mouth.

"Think nothing of it, sweets." Derek places the Zippo on the table, then, starts to roll up a smoke for himself.

"My dad said you just got back from Amsterdam."

Derek smiles to himself at her adorable attempts to make conversation. Not that he's complaining. He so fucking isn't. "I sure did." He confirms with a nod. "Peter said you did a pilot."

Stiles' eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised, and also rather embarrassed as her cheeks flush lightly. "Oh. Yeah." She chuckles somewhat nervously, fidgets a little in her seat. " That was my fifteen minutes of fame, I guess."

Derek quickly decides that he likes this new nervous Nelly - as Peter would say - side of Stiles. Almost as much as the flirty side of Stiles. It's kind of difficult for him to choose, actually.

"Well, what was it?"

Stiles sighs, blowing out another cloud of smoke as she does. "It was a show about a team of female secret agents, who were called, 'Five Fox Force'."

"Called what?" Derek arches a brow as he lights up his own smoke.

"'Five Fox Force'. Five, as in, there's one, two, three, four, five of us. Fox, as in, we're all foxy ladies. And Force, as in, we're a force to be reckoned with." Stiles rolls her eyes, smiles sheepishly and blushes a little harder.

She knows it's lame, okay?

She was young. So, what?

...Leave her alone!

Derek watches her, thinks her to be rather endearing when she talks non-stop. Stone him, he likes it, okay? And that's saying something good, because Derek hates talking.

Yet, here he is. Sitting in a shitty retro restaurant with his boss' daughter - of all people - and he's never been more fucking comfortable and at ease with anybody in his entire life.

Not even his mother, for fuck sake! And that, is definitely saying something. He just doesn't know what, because it actually kind of freaks him out.

Ever oblivious, Stiles keeps talking, explaining herself. "There was the Swedish one; Sommerset O'Neal, from that stupid show, 'Baton Rogue', and she was the leader of the group. There was the Japanese one, an African American one, a French one and the one from Romania; me. Oh, and we all had some specific special skill each. The Swedish girl had a photographic memory, the Japanese girl was a martial arts master, the African American girl was a demolitions expert, and the French girl's speciality was using sex as manipulation."

Derek arches a brow when she grins, but mostly because - "And what was your speciality?"

Stiles blushes a little harder as she scoffs out the word; "Old-fashioned weaponry, I guess... I mean, apparently, I was supposed to be the most dangerous woman on the planet if I had like a knife or a cross-bow or something like that. My character? Raven Reyes. Her background history was that she was found and raised by circus performers. So, she grew up doing some sort sword act. And obviously, she was somewhat of an expert acrobatic athlete. She could also perform illusions. She was a trapeze artist - when you're keeping the world safe from evil, you never know when being a trapeze artist will come in handy."

Derek smirks in amusement when she grins excitedly, simply sits back in his seat, smokes his smoke and listens to her talk. And really, he thinks, he really could do this for hours, for days, forever?

"And she knew, like, a gazillion jokes, too. Her grandfather - an old, retired, vaudevillian taught her most of them. And if our show got picked up, they woulda' worked in a little gimmick, where in every episode, at one point, I woulda' told a joke."

"Do you happen to remember any of these jokes?" Because Derek's genuinely curious, now.

"Well," Stiles averts her gaze bashfully. "I only know one, 'cause we only got to do the one show."

"Tell me." Derek grins cheekily as he leans forward in his seat and rests his elbows on the table.

"Naw," Stiles shakes her head, smiles shyly. "It's way too cheesy."

"Oh, come on, sweetcheeks, don't be coy." Derek presses lightly, grin only widening.

"No." Stiles shakes her head, shrinks slightly inwards on her. "You won't like it, and I'll just end up being embarrassed."

"You told it to a whole bunch of other people, and you can't say it me?" Derek arches a challenging brow. "C'mon. I promise, I won't laugh."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Stiles says with a little laugh of her own.

Derek shoots her a playful, but withering look. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"You're quite the silver-tongued devil, aren't you?" Stiles asks with a grin, though, clearly stalling.

"I meant that I wouldn't laugh at you." Derek grins back easily, but also buries the witty (and dirty) response he wants to counter with. Something to do with his tongue and her "Holiest of Holy's" - but only because they've just met and definitely still because she's the big man's daughter.

"That's not what I said, Derek." Stiles smiles, biting at her bottom lip as she watches him all, but squirm under her gaze. "Well, now, I'm definitely not gonna tell you, 'cause it's been built up way too much."

"Fine. Have it your way." Derek scoffs as he leans back in his seat, but he's smiling, too.

Finally, Buddy comes back with their drinks on a tray, places them both down before scurrying off again.

"Yummy!" Stiles sucks on her straw as she watches the wolf daintily sipping his straight from the glass.

Derek eyes her back. "May I have a sip of yours? I'd just gotta know what a five dollar milkshake tastes like."

Stiles nods. "Be my guest." She says, slowly sliding her glass across the table.

"Thanks." Derek nods.

"You can use my straw." Stiles says when he goes to pull it out. "I don't have kooties."

Derek can't help smiling at that. "Yeah," He says, leaving her straw in, and reaching for his own instead. "But maybe I do."

"Kooties, I can handle." Stiles says, voice low and eyes glued to the wolf as he carefully takes a small sip of her Martin and Lewis.

"God damn!" Derek chuckles as he pulls his straw back out of her glass. "That's a pretty fucking good milkshake."

"Told ya." Stiles simply grins as he slides her glass back to her.

"Well, I don't know if it's worth five dollars. But yeah, it's still pretty fucking good."

Then, finally, for the first time since they arrived at the restaurant, they fall into a short, but oddly rather comfortable silence.

And of course, Stiles can't help herself - always the first to crack. "Don't you just love that?" She says, her words tumbling almost lazily out of her mouth as she nibbles at the end of her straw.

"What?" Derek arches a brow, looks slightly lost.

"Comfortable silences." Stiles says, like he should have known just what she is talking about.

Derek simply nods, maybe to prove her point.

"And don't you just hate uncomfortable silences?"

"I don't know." Derek shrugs, doesn't exactly know where she's going with this.

Stiles goes on anyway, like she doesn't really even need his input, and Derek just let's her because he really does like the sound of her voice and the way those sexy, cupid-bow lips move around her words.

"I think that's when you know you've finally found that one perfect person for you." She says, eyes intense, and focused solely on him, literally making him feel like the only man in the world, let alone room. "When you can sit there beside them, and just shut the fuck up for five minutes, and just share some comfortable, uninterrupted silence."

Derek gulps silently as she enunciates those last three words, eyes still staring into his, and he can't even tear them away, has no will or power to.

After a moment - which Derek is certain she is doing just too tease him - Stiles finally blinks, and grins brightly again, shattering their little moment right before the wolf's poor eyes.

"Eh, I don't think we're quite there, yet. But don't feel too bad, I mean, we just met one another." Derek smiles rather sheepishly as he takes a big gulp of his sweet, vanilla coke.

"Alright," Stiles smiles to herself, amusement dancing gleefully around in her eyes. "Tell you what," She says, slowly rises from her seat and slides gracefully out of the Cadillac. "I'll just nip to the little girl's room, and powder my nose, while you sit here and think of something to say. Sound good?"

"Sounds good to me." Derek nods, smiling slightly in amusement at her particular choice of words. He briefly wonders if she's doing it on purpose. Not that he minds. He's not exactly T-total himself.


	7. Natural Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But you can't really make me promise something like that." Stiles clicks her tongue at him, her grin slowly widening, like some kind of beautiful fucking Cheshire cat. "See, I have no idea of what you're about to ask me. I mean, you could ask me anyway, and my natural reaction may be me taking offence. Then, through no fault of my own, I would have broken my promise to you."

In the "little girl's room," Stiles powders her nose by sniffing up another long line of pixie dust as quietly as she can. As she finishes the line, she quickly flushes the toilet to cover the noise of her coughing and laughing to herself.

And bless Derek, the gentleman that he is - when Stiles arrives back at their table, she sees that their food has been finally brought over, but that the wolf hasn't touch a bite, obviously waiting for her return.

"Whoo, let's eat, huh!?" Stiles feels the familiar rush she always feels for the first few minutes before the dust settles down into her system, mellowing her out once again.

Derek grins knowingly to himself, but doesn't say anything as he simply nods and then, picks up his fork and steak knife. And it doesn't surprise Stiles when she sees how daintily he cuts his food before putting it into his mouth.

Stiles smiles to herself as she settles back into her seat and picks up her burger. "Don't you just love it when you go to the bathroom and you come back to find your food waiting for you?"

"We're lucky we got anything at all." Derek scoffs out, motioning towards the waiters' station. "Buddy Holly doesn't seem to be much of a waiter. We should have sat in Marilyn Munroe's section."

"Which one?" Stiles asks before taking a big bite of her burger.

Derek blinks. "What?"

Stiles shoots him a slight questioning look. "Which one? There's two Munroe's."

"No, sweet. There's only one Munroe, I assure you." Derek grins when she looks at him confused. "That," He points his knife in the direction behind her and waits for her to turn around before saying, "Is Marilyn Munroe. And that,"

Stiles turns around and looks to the left of them.

"Is Mamie Van Doren." Derek says as he cuts another piece of his steak. "Although, I didn't see Jayne Mansfield, so it must be her off or something."

Stiles smiles with amusement, though, she can't help feeling slightly impressed. "You're pretty smart."

Of course Stiles is near genius levels - her teachers and professors words, not her own - but she doing have to let Derek know that. In her experience, men usually don't like it when girls are smarter than them.

However, Stiles thinks that maybe Derek's different.

Still, it's too early for her to tell, really.

"Yeah, I have my moments." Derek smiles down at his already half eaten steak.

"So, did you think of something interesting to say?" Stiles asks as she hides her smile behind her burger.

"Actually," Derek pauses with his steak. "There's something that I've been wanting to ask you, but you seem like a real nice person and all, so I don't know if I should, 'cause I don't wanna offend you."

And, he thinks, it's better than asking her fucking father!

"Ohh! This doesn't sound like boring, mindless, get-to-know-you kinda chit-chat." Stiles grins mischievously, pauses, too, and places her burger down. "You actually sound like you have something interesting to say."

"Well," Derek knows he can't really back out now. "Only if you promise not to be offended."

"But you can't really make me promise something like that." Stiles clicks her tongue at him, her grin slowly widening, like some kind of beautiful fucking Cheshire cat. "See, I have no idea of what you're about to ask me. I mean, you could ask me anyway, and my natural reaction may be me taking offence. Then, through no fault of my own, I would have broken my promise to you."

Derek shoots her a withering look.

Stiles merely let's out a taunting cackle.

"Well, then, let's just forget it."

Yeah, right, he thinks.

"Oh, no."

See? He sighs.

Stiles shakes her head furiously. "No, that is now an impossibility. For someone like me, especially, trying to forget something as intriguing as this would be an exercise in futility." She states matter of factly, and rather snootily, but still all lighthearted.

"Is that a fact?" Derek arches a brow and grins lightly as he leans back in his seat.

"Yep." Stiles nods, then, grins back. "Besides, it's more fun when you don't have permission."

Derek chuckles, shakes his head. He sighs finally after a few moments when she does nothing other than watch him, clearly waiting for him to spill the beans. "Alright," He leans forward, and chooses his words as carefully as he possibly can. "What do you know about what happened to Vernon Boyd?"

"Who's that?" Stiles blinks.

Derek blinks, too, because, what? "Uh," He clears his throat. "Vernon Rocky Horror?"

"Oh, him." Stiles nods, munching into her burger as she replies with, "I heard he fell out of a window."

Derek watches her closely, listens to her heartbeat, and scowls lightly when it doesn't so much as stutter. "That's one way to look at it." He nods. "Another way to look at it is that he was thrown out by your father. And another way to look at it is that he did it, because of you..." He trails off, watches her carefully as he let's it all sink in.

"Is that a fact?" Stiles arches a brow, slowly places down her burger.

Because, what the hell? Seriously? God, she thinks, these stupid boys and there stupid stories.

"No, no." Derek shakes his head as he leans back again, his heart racing slightly.

Well, she could call her father at any fucking moment and have him fucking cut in fucking half!

"No, it's not a fact." Derek says, gives an easy shrug. "It's just what I heard."

"Mm-hm." Stiles looks slightly annoyed, now, or at the very least, deeply unimpressed. "And who told you this?"

Because she knows exactly what he's insinuating. And it's infuriating!

Sure, she likes to fuck, but she's not a fucking cheap slut, who fucks anything with a fucking pulse!

"Uh... They?" Derek supplies, smiles somewhat sheepishly.

"Uh-huh." Stiles nods, leans forward, resting her elbows on either side of her plate as she stares ever intensely back at him. "'They' talk a lot, don't they?"

"They certainly do." Derek nods, even when he knows she didn't need an answer.

But of course, Peter could talk for the entire U.S. continent. Seriously. Annoyingly. Seriously.

"Well," Stiles calmly clears her throat and gives him her full attention. "Don't be coy, Derek,"

And Derek thinks his dick shrinks a little every God damn time she makes him eat his own words.

Seriously, he wants to think she's just some stuck up broad and a little bit of a bitch, but he can admit that he brought this on himself.

And he also can't help feeling rather impressed. Although, she is a Stilinski, so he probably should have known what he was in for right from the very start.

"What exactly did 'They' say?" Stiles asks, arches a brow, clearly expecting an answer real soon.

Even if she's playing nice, Derek can tell she's pretty pissed off. And even if it's too late to take back his words, it's not too late to at least try to rectify the situation.

"Lemme help you out, Bashful," Stiles cuts him off, however, though, she's still extremely calm. Thanks to the dust, of course. "Did it involve the F word and what's between my legs?"

Derek almost chokes on his own spit, but somehow - he thinks it a miracle - manages to respond. "No." He mutters, clears his throat. "No. Not at all. They just said that Vernon Rocky Horror gave you a foot massage..."

Stiles raises both brows, clearly surprised, though, for all of two seconds before she deflates in her seat, all pent up anger suddenly diminished.

Derek, too, let's out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. He quickly scents her and can't get over the joy he feels when she's no longer pissed off.

No longer pissed off, means no potential phone call of death...

Well, for now, at least.

He vows to keep his mouth shut on such topics from now on.

"And...?"

Derek arches a brow, looks confused. "And, what?"

"Is that all?" Stiles bites back an amused smile, and seriously, he thinks, does she have bi-polar or something?

"That's all." Derek nods.

Stiles chuckles. "So, lemme get this straight; you heard that my dad threw Vernon Rocky horror out of a window, because Vernon Rocky Horror gave me a foot massage?"

Well, when she says it aloud like that...

Derek blushes lightly, scowls at himself for doing so. He's rarely ever embarrassed. Perks of being a werewolf.

Yet, here Stiles is, a girl he's known barely two hours, and she's already making him feel like he fricking peed himself in the school playground!

And yet, here Derek is, actually loving it. God, what has he become?

"Yeah..."

Stiles snorts. "And you believed that?" She finds that very hard to believe, or at least, she'd hoped so, hoped that he was in some way, on her level.

"Well... At the time I was told, it seemed somewhat reasonable..."

"Reasonable?" Stiles looks at him as if he's insane. "My dad throwing Vernon Rocky horror out of a window for giving me a foot massage is reasonable to you?"

"I said, 'somewhat'..." Derek mumbles out, knows he's pathetic for even doing it.

Stiles shoots him a withering look of her own.

Derek huffs. "Okay, maybe not reasonable. In fact, kinda overkill." He adds thoughtfully. "But that still doesn't that it didn't happen? I mean, I've heard that your father is very, very protective over you." And he really doesn't know if he's digging himself out or just deeper into this mess.

"A father being protective over his daughter is one this," Stiles says, like he should already know, because, well, he should. "But a father almost killing another man for touching his daughter's feet is something else entirely. Attempted murder, for one thing."

"Okay, fair enough." Derek nods, holds up his hands, then, timidly asks, "But... Did it happen?"

"The only thing that Vernon Rocky Horror ever touched was my hand when he shook it... At one of my dad's stupid meetings." Stiles smirks smugly, clearly very amused. "I met him only once, and I don't know why it happened, but I know that it did. And the truth is that nobody knows why my dad threw Vernon Rocky Horror out of that window. Except for, that is, my dad and Vernon Rocky Horror."

"Right." Derek nods.

"Jeez," Stiles chuckles, shakes her head. "When you boys get together, you're worse gossip whores than a sewing circle."

And really, Derek can't help smiling at that.

+

[An Hour Later...]

Much to Derek's horror, Stiles has somehow forced him into the stupid dance contest.

"Right here!" Stiles yells, waves her hand in the air and Derek pales, "No, no, no, no -"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes -" Stiles nods, grins widely as he shakes his head. "Ahem!" She cuts him off. "I do believe that my dad ask you to do whatever I want. And I want that trophy."

"I don't dance." Derek shoots her a pathetic glare.

"You do now, handsome." Stiles chuckles as she hauls him up onto his feet and quickly slips out of her heels, leaving her feet completely bare.

Derek begrudgingly allows her to drag him up onto the fucking stupid stage in the center of the restaurant.

"Dance good, now." Stiles grins when he arches a challenging brow.

+

[Three Hours Later...]

Derek chuckles as he locks up his Camaro and watches her frolic her way across her father's driveway, still dancing with herself.

Stiles giggles drunkenly, maybe still a little high, too. "You danced good, sourwolf."

Derek follows her, walks her to her door, at least. "I said I 'don't' dance." He grin cheekily. "I never said I couldn't."

"Well, I am impressed." Stiles grins back, hold her very large dance trophy - because of course they fucking won! They were awesome!

Derek smiles back at her, the two of them simply staring at one another for a few moments. His smile widens then, as he asks, "Is that what you'd call a comfortable silence?"

"I think so."

Derek gulps silently, reality suddenly crashing around him as her eyes darken and he scents her God damn sweet arousal.

"Music and drinks!" Stiles chimes, holding her trophy up.

Derek's not sure if he should follow or not, however, Stiles, clearly has other ideas as she latches onto his wrist and hauls him towards her front door.


	8. A Moral Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A moral test of myself - whether or not you can maintain loyalty to the big man, as well as the overwhelming fear of being torn in half, that is..."

"Make yourself at home." Stiles says as she places her trophy down on the marble coffee table and shuffles over to the old-fashioned record player.

"I'm gonna go take a piss, if that's alright with you?"

Stiles snorts. "That's a little too much information for me, Derek, but that's totally fine by me." She says without even looking up, waving him off with one hand.

"Thanks." Derek bites back a smirk before making his way through the large mansion.

Stiles chooses her favourite record by Elvis; 'Heartbreak Hotel' and slowly sways against the music.

Stiles dances her way to one of the cream-white, leather couches and flops lazily down. As she listens to the music, she suddenly remembers that she's wearing Derek's blazer. She smirks gleefully, digging into his pockets in search of his tobacco pouch. She finds his Zippo lighter easily in the inside pocket, but that's not all she finds.

"Well, hello there..." Stiles arches a brow, looking very intrigued, pulling out a small, clear bag, filled with a curious black, silvery kind of looking dust.

+

Meanwhile, inside the main, very large and marble-tiled bathroom, Derek glares at his reflection in the (too large, in his opinion) mirror.

"One drink." He tells him. "Just one drink. Because you don't wanna be rude, do you? No, you don't wanna be rude. Don't be rude, Derek, just drink your drink and then, politely make an excuse to leave. And then, you're gonna jump in your car and drive the fuck home."

+

Stiles grabs the small razor blade tapped to the bag and pours out just a small amount onto the coffee table. She doesn't want to be rude and use it all, not that she even knows what the fuck it even is, but it's not as if she can't pay him the money back.

Stiles closes the bag and places it carefully back in the pocket she found it in. She grins excitedly, far too drunk to reconsider her decision.

Stiles leans down, sniffing up the tiny black line. She sits up, and for a moment, there's nothing and she scowls, clearly annoyed.

However, when Stiles tries to stand up, she pauses, eyes widening as the rush suddenly hits her, full force and -

Holy...

Shit..

Balls...

What...

The...

Fuck...

Is...

This...

Shit!?

Seriously!!

Stiles suddenly begins to panic when it reaches the point of far too fucking overwhelming. Her heart jack hammers painfully against her chest, her nose burning to the point of the fucking Sun, she swears!

"Ohh..." Stiles whimpers, her head spinning, vision blurring and nostril trickling heavily with blood.

+

Derek takes a deep breath as he dries his hands of the fluffy towel.

"I mean, it's a moral test, if anything."

He glares over at the mirror when he catches his reflection again.

"A moral test of myself - whether or not you can maintain loyalty to the big man, as well as the overwhelming fear of being torn in half, that is..."

He huffs, shakes his head, though, still glares at himself.

"Because when people are loyal to one another, that's very meaningful..."

+

By now, Stiles is as only as she can be. She's literally a pile of messed up and numb limbs as she tries to crawl across the floor like a fucking cripple!

But if she can just make it to the bathroom...

Make it to Derek...

Blood continues to drip heavily from her nose, and then, to make things worse, her stomach fizzes and she throws the fuck up.

But not just regular throw up!

Oh, no!

It's fucking foam!

Stiles is fucking foaming!

God, she's fucking dying and she fucking knows it!

"D-Der..."

It's no use. She can barely fucking move let alone fucking talk!

+

Derek, alas, continues with his self-loathing. And misery.

"So, you're just gonna go drink your drink, and then, leave. Of course, you also say that you had a really lovely evening and all of that other shit, and if you go home and jerk off a few thousand times over those sensational cock-sucking, cupid-bow, cherry-red lips in the shower, it's okay, she never has to know, and my shame remains a secret and everything's good."

Derek nods, looks almost proud of his plan. Now that he's given himself a little pep talk, he thinks he's finally ready to go back out there and face the music.

+

"Hey, uh, Stiles?"

Derek doesn't scent the air properly until he has to, can smell acid and vomit and -

Oh...

Dear...

Holy...

Fucking...

God...

"Oh, no..." Derek breathes, eyes wide with horror, but heart filling with aching terror. "No, no, no, no, no, no -" He rushes over to her, heart racing heavily and so fucking fast when he sees her slack jaw and rolled eyes and foaming fucking mouth and bloody nose!!

Derek doesn't know how the fuck he stays so calm, though, he thinks he must be on auto pilot as he rushes over to her and reaches down to check her pulse at her neck.

He breathes out a loud sigh of relief when he feels her heartbeat, even if it's rather faint, it's still enough, she isn't fucking dead!

Yet!

Derek has to act quickly, so he does the only thing he can think of...

+

Derek gently places Stiles limp body across the back seat of his Camaro before hopping into the front and speeding the fuck out of there.

He can't take her to a hospital, he knows that as he pulls out his phone and puts it on speed dial 6 - the number of the fucking Satan, reincarnated. Seriously.

"Okay," He breathes, glancing over at her. "It's okay, Stiles. I promise, I'm gonna make this okay. Just don't go fucking dying on me, now."

"Answer the phone, you fucking asshole!" Derek snarls, gripping the phone in anger.

Finally, she answers on the fucking eleventh ring. Like what the fucking fuck!? She's a fucking dealer, for fuck sake!

Derek's completely livid by the time she answers. "About time, you piece of shit!" He snaps.

"Whoa! What the fuck!?" Malia snaps, then, pauses, sounds slightly confused as she asks; "Wait - Derek?"

Derek rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. "Just shut the fuck up and listen to me, or I swear to God, I will tear your heart out with my fucking teeth!"

"Okay! Fuck!" Malia snips. "What's your problem, now? The stuff I sold you was legit, man. You know that."

"Yeah, I know that, okay!?" Derek snaps. "Just shut up! Look, I'm on my way over to you."

"No, hold your horses!" Malia cuts in, clearly not liking that idea. She likes to stay the fuck out of trouble as much as she possibly can.

Derek ignores here as he asks, "Do you have an adrenaline shot at your place?"

"Well, yeah... But -"

"Okay, good. I'm bringing her over right now."

"Whoa! What!? Who!?" Then, Malia suddenly realises and - "No! No!!"

"I fucking need it, you bitch! She's fucking dying on me! The fucking boss' daughter, man! Please!"

"Well, don't bring her here!! What the fuck, Derek!? Are you fucking serious!? Don't bring her here, man, I am fucking serious about that!"

"Tough shit!! I don't have a fucking choice!"

"No! No, Derek! Seriously! I swear, I am not even fucking joking right now! Do not bring her over here! Do not be fucking bringing some fucked up junkie skank to my front fucking door step!"

"You don't have a front door step..."

"Derek! You asshole! Do not do this to me!"

"No choice." Derek repeats, speeding at full pelt through the night.

"Oh, for fu -" Malia hesitates, but only a little, Derek knows she's not the cold-hearted bitch she makes herself out to be. "She's O-D-ing?"

"She's fucking spacing on me, yeah." Derek tries to keep his shit together.

"Well, then, don't be a pussy, bite the fucking bullet, call her a lawyer and take her to a God damn fucking hospital!" Malia exclaims, like it should be that obvious. "Wait a second... Did you call here on a regular phone? Uh... Who is this!? How did you get my number!? Stop fucking calling me!!"

"Malia, if you put that fucking phone down on me right now, so help me, I will fucking murder you in your sleep."

Malia growls loudly in frustration.

"Now," Derek takes a deep breathe. "I'm five minutes away. And if you've quite finished having your little hissy fit, this girl is fucking dying, so get your God damn fucking needle ready."


	9. Match Made in Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You two are a match made in heaven." Derek scoffs under his breath.

"Are you fucking deaf!?" Malia screams down the phone, clearly as panicked as her cousin, now. "You are not fucking bringing a fucked up junkie bitch into my house!"

"Malia!" Derek snaps back, and he doesn't even know why it angers him so much when she calls Stiles that. "This fucked up junkie bitch," He grits out the words venomously. "Just so happens to be my boss; John Stilinski's one and only motherfucking daughter. You know who that is, don't you?"

"Shit... Yeah... Fuck!!"

"Exactly." Derek smirks bitterly. "Now, if you don't help me, he's gonna fucking saw me in half as slowly as he possibly can. Seriously, he even told me that he would if I let anything bad happen to her. However, before he does that, I will make damn fucking sure to tell him that you could have helped me, and that your selfish ass fucking didn't! That you just let her die on your stupidly perfect front lawn!!"

+

"Fuck sake!!" Malia finally snaps after a brief silence. She huffs angrily, throw hers covers off and jumps out of her bed.

As Malia throws on her robe, she can already hear her cousin's motor pulling up outside and screeching so fucking loudly probably waking the God damn neighbours!

Malia marches through her house, ignoring Kira's questions and Lydia's unconscious form spread out on the couch in the living room altogether.

"It's almost four in the morning, for fuck sake. What the fuck is going on?" Kira looks more confused than anything else as she watches her wife stalk angrily towards their front door.

Derek kills the engine, pockets the keys, but doesn't bother closing the doors, doesn't have fucking time to. He almost rips the back door open, then, hauls Stiles' limp body up into his arms as carefully as fucking possible.

Malia rips open the front door just in time, all, but having a mental fucking breakdown. "Are you fucking stupid!? What the fucking fuck, man!? I could go to fucking prison! Do you know what they do to pretty bitches like me in prison!? They fucking rape them with bars of God damn soap!!" She roars at her cousin, no longer giving a shit about her neighbours. Fuck them!

"Malia, shut the fuck up!" Derek snaps, glaring murderously as he barges passed her and into the house. "Get the fucking needle and hurry the fuck up about it!"

"Oh, hey, Der - what the fuck?" Kira slowly sits up on the couch. "Who's she?"

Derek ignores her as he goes and places Stiles carefully on the rug by the fireplace.

Malia slams the front door with a growl and rushes back into the living room. "Kira, go get the little, black box under our bed. It should have an adrenaline shot in it."

"Uh, oh-kay..." Kira nods, hauls herself up from the couch. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's fucking O-D-ing! Just hurry the fuck up, will you!?" Malia hisses, clearly frazzled and one step away from cracking completely.

"Fuck you, bitch! You go fucking get it!" Kira snaps back, plopping herself defiantly back on the couch.

Malia glares at her. "Are you fucking kidding me right now!?"

Kira simply scoffs and turns her eyes back to the television.

"Fuck sake!!!" Malia screams at the top of her lungs before charging back to her bedroom.

"You two are a match made in heaven." Derek scoffs under his breath.

Kira snorts, but otherwise ignores him.

"-the fuck up, Derek!!" Malia snarls as she comes rushing back into the room with a small, black, tin box in her hands.

"Just hurry the fuck up!" Derek snaps, kneeling down on the left side of Stiles.

Malia moves to kneel the opposite side and quickly finds the shot in the box. "J-just keep talking to her, okay?" She says, her hands steady, but her heart racing a mile a minute. "Shit!" She suddenly hisses. "I-I gotta look at the medical book before she takes the shot."

"What the fuck do you need a medical book for!?" Derek hisses, completely outraged.

"To tell us how to do it. I mean, I've never given someone an adrenaline shot before." Malia says, like it should be obvious to him.

"Are you fucking serious!? You've had the thing for ten years and you've never fucking used it once!!"

"Well, I never had to use it! I don't know if you've noticed, but unlike you, I don't go around fucking joy-pill-popping with bubblegummers, just so all my stupid ass friends will think I'm fucking cool!"

"Fuck you!!"

"And anyway, all my fucking friends know how to fucking handle their highs!!" Malia says, motions down to the half-dead woman.

Derek glares murderously at his so-called cousin. She really is Peter's daughter. "Just get the damn book and hurry the fuck up!"

"Well, I would, if you would just let me!"

"I'm not fucking stopping you!"

"Alright!" Malia hauls herself up and races back to her bedroom, again. "Stop fucking talking to me and start fucking talking to her!"

As Derek hears Malia literally tearing through her bedroom, throwing things around, his heart only grows faster as Stiles' grows fainter. "Hurry up, Malia!" He yells, voice cracking slightly with panic and something else he can't quite put a finger on. "We're fucking losing her!"

"I'm looking as fast as I can, I swear!" Malia calls back, not even bothering to sass him this time. She can already tell he has some twisted kind of feeling towards the skank.

"Come on, Stiles, keep breathing. Don't give up on me." Derek whispers, hands gently brushing through her short, soft tufts of hair. "That's it, baby... You're doing real good..."

With a final, loud crash, Malia makes her way back into the room, black book in hand as she slinks down back in place beside Stiles.

"Okay, uh, take her dress off first, we need to expose her chest." Malia says as she reads as quickly as she possibly fucking can.

Derek carefully sits Stiles up, and thankfully, her dress is strapless, however, she is also braless. And he would care, but he's got more important things to think about right now. Carefully, he lays her back down, tilts her head back slightly so she can breathe better, for what it's worth anyway.

"Okay, uh," Malia reads through words, grabs the needle in her free hand.

"Does it have to be exact?" Derek asks.

"Yes, it has to be fucking exact!" Malia hisses, shoots him a scalding glare. "We're giving her an injection straight to her fucking heart, so yes, it has to be fucking exact!"

"Well, I mean, I can hear it, but where is it exactly?" Derek starts to visibly panic as he stares down at her chest. "Fuck! I can barely even fucking hear it anymore! Malia!"

"Just shut the fuck up and calm the fuck down or she's definitely gonna fucking die!" Malia snaps, drops the book and reaches forward to slap him.

"Ow! Fuck!" Derek hisses, rubbing at his stinging, red cheek.

Malia reaches out with a single clawed finger and nips Stiles' skin just enough to drop a tiny prick of blood. "There," She says, "Her heart's there, stab here there."

"What!?" Derek's eyes widen in horror.

"You're gonna give her the shot."

"Oh, no. No, no, I don't think so. You're gonna give her the shot."

"But I've never done this before!"

Malia scoffs, still holding the shot out for him to take. "Well, neither the fuck have I. And I'm not fucking starting now. Anyway, you're the idiot that brought her here, so you're the idiot who's gonna give her the shot. The day I bring an O-D-ing bitch to your doorstep, I'll gladly be the one to give her the shot."

Derek sighs in defeat, then, growls in annoyance as he snatches the shot out of her hand. "Okay, fine! Shit... So, what'd I do?" He tries to calm his breathing as he leans over Stiles.

"Okay, so, you're giving her a shot of adrenaline straight to her heart, but she's also got a hard breast-plate to get passed." Malia explains calmly, though, her hands are frantic as she motions the actions to him. "So, what you gotta do is, come down on her in a stabbing motion, and pierce through the plate and into her heart in one solid motion."

"I gotta stab her!?" Derek looks appalled.

"If you want the needle to pierce through and get to her heart, yes! Then, once you do that, press down on the plunger, immediately!" Malia makes the stabbing motion.

"I gotta stab her three times!?" Derek's clearly not thinking straight anymore. Thank God for his fucked up cousin.

"No, you ain't gotta stab her three fucking times!? Jesus Christ! Just once, douchebag! You gotta get right the first motherfucking time!"

"Okay." Derek nods. "And then, what happens after that?"

"I'm curious about that myself, actually." Malia says all too casually.

"This aint a fucking joke, man!" Derek punches her in the shoulder.

Malia rolls her eyes, but answers, "She's supposed to just - I dunno - like, snap out of it, I guess."

"You guess? Oh, God." Derek groans.

He's going to die.

Right after Stiles, that is...

"Okay," Derek takes a deep breath.

"On the count on three?"

Derek nods. "One..."

"Two..." Malia says, eyes slightly wide and jaw anxiously clenched.

"Three!" Derek exclaims before bringing the needle down. Thankfully, with his strength, he manages to pierce through to her heart. He instantly presses the plunger and literally, the worst thing ever happens...

Nothing...

Not a God damn thing...

Malia waits, clearly confused, but not really know what to think.

Because - what the actual fucking fuck?

"What the fuck!?" Derek roars, needle sticking out of Stiles chest as he glares murderously over at his cousin once more. "It didn't fucking work!"

"I can fucking see that, Sherlock!!"

"Why didn't it fucking work!?"

"I don't fucking know!" Malia squeals, looks just as helpless.

"FUCK!!" Derek roars, eyes burning red and walls shaking.

Kira, finally, huffs and stands up, calmly walks over to the trio and shoves Malia aside as she kneels down beside Stiles.

"Excuse you." Malia mutters, glaring at the back of her wife's head.

Kira simply ignores her as she reaches out a hand. She tears the needle out and tosses it aside before laying her hand on Stiles chest.

Derek's eyes widen as he watches Kira's hand crackle with electricity. And he almost has a fucking heart attack, he swears, in that next moment.

A bright, white light fills the room as Stiles' entire body glows before shaking and then...

Stiles gasp loudly, sucking in a chunk of air as she suddenly bolts upright.

Kira instantly pulls back, and simply stands up and walks back over to the couch as if it had never even happened.

"Holy fuck! Stiles!"

Stiles gasps and sputters as the wolf grabs her gently and tries to soothe her. "D-Derek?"

"Yeah," Derek nods, pulls her into his lap, her back against his chest. "Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles." He puffs out a very relieved laugh.

"Ugh!" Malia falls onto her back, groaning loudly, also clearly very relieved. "Thank you, baby."

Kira merely rolls her eyes, still obviously pissed off with her so-called wife.

"How'd you know what to do?" Derek asks, pulling Stiles closer as she shudders and twitches, clearly in shock.

Kira huffs, but answers him, "She took wolfsbane. It's not a human drug. That's why the shot didn't do anything to her."

"Stiles?" Derek asks, voice soft. "If you're okay, say something..."

Stiles shudders, but for an entirely different reason. "Something..."

And really, Derek can't help smiling.

+

When Derek pulls his Camaro back onto her father's driveway, he helps her out of the passenger's side, but Stiles insists on walking to her door by herself. Even though he insists, gentleman that he is, on walking her back to her front door.

And that's the very fucking least he can do, he thinks.

"Stiles,"

Stiles turns to face him. "Yeah?" She says, voice tired, shock worn away by now.

"Uh... What're your thoughts on how to handle what happened to tonight?"

"What're yours?"

"Well," Derek smiles sheepishly. "I'm of the opinion that you father can live his entire life happily without ever having known about it."

Stiles, surprisingly to the wolf, smiles. "Don't worry, Derek, if my dad ever found out about what happened here tonight, I'd be in just as much trouble as you."

"Oh, I seriously, doubt that, sweetheart." Derek doesn't even scoff, that's how serious he is.

"Well," Stiles smiles widens. "If you can keep a secret, then, so can I."

Derek nods, walks over to her. "Let's shake on it, then." He holds out his hand.

Stiles' eyes wrinkle with amusement. Nonetheless, she slips her hand into his, bites her lip as they shake three time and absolutely does not miss the warmth of his deliciously rough skin.

"Mum's the word." Derek shoots her a half charming, half sleep-dopey grin.

Stiles grins back and makes the motions of 'hear-no-evil, see-no-evil'.

Derek can't help smiling, clearing his throat before he let's it go on any longer, let's his feelings grow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I am gonna go home and have a heart attack."

Stiles can't help, but chuckle lightly. "I'm really sorry..."

"No, no -"

"No, Derek, I mean, I was stupid... And rude for stealing your stash... Which, I swear, I fully intended to pay you back for and -"

"Stiles,"

Stiles blinks.

"It's fine. Really." Derek shoots her a reassuring look.

Stiles nods, gulps, and still looks guilty. "Well, how about I cook you dinner next Friday night, and I could maybe tell you that stupid joke?"

"Uh," Derek doesn't know what to think. Well, other than - "What about your father?"

"What about him?"

Derek arches a brow. "Won't he, y'know... Cut me in half?"

Stiles giggles, as if that's absurd. "No, silly. But he'd probably kill you if you upset me by not letting make up to you for tonight..."

Derek chuckles nervously, because he's really not sure if she's being serious or not.

Stiles chuckles, leans up on her tip-toes and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight, Derek. Apart from almost dying, I had a really nice time."

Derek watches her close the front door behind her before blowing a kiss after her and letting out a dreamy sigh as he wanders slowly back to his car.


	10. I Know Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Course, I know." John scoffs, looks highly amused as he hands one glass to the wolf. "I'm her father. I know everything."

As promised, the next Friday, that evening, Derek pull's his Camaro back up into the Stilinski driveway. However, much to his horror, it's her father who answers the door to him.

Thankfully, John chuckles, seeing the all, but terrified look on the wolf's face. "Relax, son." He claps a hand on the younger man's shoulder, grinning as he adds, "I'm pleased to say that Stiles really seems to like you."

Derek can only nod and gulp silently as he follows the big man into his mansion. Although, he can't help smiling on the inside.

Stiles likes him...

"Drink?"

"Please." Derek nods politely as he follows John over to the bar in the large living area. "Where is Stiles, if I may ask?"

"In her room, getting dressed, probably powdering her nose." John chuckles, shaking his head as he pours out two straight glasses of brandy.

"You know?" Derek arches a brow, looks rather surprised, though, he doesn't know why, really.

"'Course, I know." John scoffs, looks highly amused as he hands one glass to the wolf. "I'm her father. I know everything."

Derek chuckles nervously along with his boss as they clink glasses and drink up.

Surely that can't be true, he thinks, surely he'd be dead by now...

By some miracle, Stiles finally appears a few moments of slightly awkward silence later. This time, she's dressed down a little in her short-shorts and her Iron Maiden shirt and her ratty slippers.

But even without the make-up and the bed hair, Derek finds that he can barely breathe, let alone tear his eyes away.

"Hey, Derek." Stiles smiles her usual bright, beaming smile as she brushes lightly (purposely) passed him and stands beside her father.

"Evening." Derek offers her a curt nod, because duh! Her father is standing right there and he really does feel terrible for all of the perverse thoughts he's been having about his boss' daughter.

But seriously, he thinks, Stiles lips should be fucking illegal or something. Or at least come with a fricking warning.

A man can only take so much.

And the wolf can take just a little less.

Which so doesn't help his cause.

Ugh!

"Finally come out of hiding, baby girl?" John stifles a laugh, eyes shining with pure affection and worship as he stares down at the only really precious thing in his life.

"I had a migraine." Stiles shoots him a withering, but playful glare.

"Well, maybe you should take a break." John notes, wiggling his nose for emphasis.

Stiles scoffs, tries to look offended, though, she can't help grinning. "Actually, I've been sober for two days." Her grin widens as she turns to the wolf. "I wanted a nice, normal dinner with my new best friend."

Derek tries to keep his stupid, so-called werewolf-enhanced composure. Pff!

When he's with Stiles, he might as well be fucking human, she's that unpredictable. And it's annoying and thrilling both at once.

God, what the fuck is she doing to him!?

John looks surprised, though, because he can always tell if she lying. "Well, good for you, darling."

Stiles smirks as he quickly knocks back the rest of his whiskey.

"Mm," John licks his lips, places his empty glass back on the bar and turns to face his daughter. "I've got a meeting to get to. Don't wait up?"

"Of course." Stiles rolls her eyes, but nods and leans up to peck her father on the cheek. "Be careful."

"Always, baby girl." John nods. "Derek." He nods at the wolf before make his departure.

Derek's shoulders sag slightly with relief, his anxiety clawing it's way up through his fucking throat. "So..."

Stiles stares at him for a few moments, simply taking in his Henley and black, leather jacket in approval and smiling with amusement as he stands there with his glass in his hand and his eyes slightly wide and terror-filled.

"Well, what?"

Derek scoffs out a laugh. "Seriously?" He's not annoyed, just amused. "You're seriously gonna make me spell it out?"

"Spell what out?" Stiles lips slowly widen along with his. "Relax, sourwolf," She finally chuckles. "I didn't tell him a thing about it."

"Okay..." Derek nods, sighs loudly. "Okay, good... Thank you."

Stiles simply shrugs the matter off, reaches forward and snatches the half drunk glass from his hand.

Derek shoots her a pathetic glare, ignoring the flutter his heart gives when she grins cheekily at him before downing the rest of his drink in one go. Which, he thinks, in itself, is rather impressive for a girl her size. She's so fucking little, and adorable, it almost makes him want to just let the wolf out and be violent, he feels that overwhelmed.

+

"So, what's for dinner?" Derek asks with keen interest as he follows her through the large house and into the equally large kitchen.

"Well, I was thinking that we could maybe order take-out. Um... I can't actually cook... All that well anyway..." Stiles says, cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment.

"Well, would you like me to cook for you instead?"

"You cook?" Stiles blinks. He asks like it's nothing, however, it actually turns her on a little bit.

"A little." Derek shrugs.

"Really?"

"Heh, yeah. Peter and I go to classes." Derek smiles rather bashfully. "It's kind of a hobby."

Stiles giggles. "Well, alright, then. Let's do that - sexy wolfman prepares elegant dinner for me. I love everything about it."

Derek chuckles nervously. Because oh, boy! He really hopes he doesn't fuck this up.

+

Derek doesn't fuck this up - fuck it up. Much to his utter delight, and Stiles', of course.

An hour later, Derek's rustled up two chicken fillet breast, wrapped snugly in bacon, on the side of a few boiled vegetables. It's simple, yes, not one of his best dishes, but he's had to make do with what's there, and Stiles seems to enjoy it quite a lot.

So all in all, he thinks, it's a success.

A half hour later, Derek and Stiles are sat on the island, sitting beside one another. They chat fruitlessly, just enjoying one another's company.

"Hey, Derek,"

Derek puts down the glass of red wine and turns to face her.

"You still wanna hear that stupid joke?"

Derek chuckles. "Well, I kinda think I'm still a little too scarred by a last experience to really laugh, but yeah," He nods, leans closer. "Tell me."

Stiles grins at his reply. "Okay. Although, remember, you won't really laugh, 'cause it's not really funny. But... I guess, if you still wanna hear it, I'll tell it."

"I can't wait." Derek grins back, clearly humouring her.

"Okay, so, three tomatoes are walking down the street. There's a papa tomato, a mama tomato and a baby tomato. While they're walking down the street, the baby tomato is lagging a little bit behind his papa tomato and his mama tomato. And in the end, the papa tomato loses his patience with the baby tomato. So, he marches passed the mama tomato and tramples all over the baby tomato, and then, he says, 'Ketchup!'"

Stiles grins lamely, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and for some weird reason, Derek can't help, but smile and lightly laugh.

"I told you it was stupid."

"Yeah, but I did laugh."

Stiles can only shoot him a withering look as her inside fizz warmly at that dazzle grin of his.

+

[Meanwhile...]

John's absolutely fucking livid as he throws himself down in the back seat of his private black limo.

Jordan hurries into the driver's side and quickly gets the engine running.

John's already dialling Braeden's as they're pulling out and Jordan puts his foot down, breaking all the speed limits as he goes.

On second ring, as usual, Braeden answers. "Boss."

"Alert Araya. I want Argent's head on my desk, pronto." John bites out, gripping the phone so tight that his knuckles ache.

"Already done."

"Good." John smirks. "Find him. And do it fast."

"I tracked him to a motel up on the main highway. I doubt he's stupid enough to still be there, but he won't be running for."

"I don't wanna know the details, just bring that piece of shit to me!"

+

By now, it's midnight, and it's also winter, which also means it's pouring down in fucking buckets.

Chris, soaking wet, and still in his boxer shorts and boxing gloves, shoves his duffel bag into the trunk before hopping into the back seat of the taxi.

From her spot in the driver's seat, Kali stares at him through the rear-view mirror before finally speaking up. "Are you the man I'm supposed to be picking up?" She asks with intrigue even though she's already pulled out and driving.

"If you're the cab I called, I'm the man you're supposed to be picking up." Chris answers, only half paying attention as he pulls of his gloves and routes around in his rucksack for some clothes.

Kali smiles to herself, because of course she recognises him. "Where to?"

"Anywhere. Just far away from this place." Chris says, pulling on a t-shirt and some cargo pants over his shorts.

+

"Oh, yeah, he's booked alright." Ennis confirms as he follows his boss through the precinct and into his office.

Meanwhile, Jordan waits outside, just on the other side of the door, like the good little guard hound he is. But he doesn't mind. He gets paid a shitload, after all.

"I am prepared to scour the earth for this motherfucker." John grunts as he flops down into his chair. "If Chris goes Indo China, I want a wolf already hiding in a bowl of motherfucking rice ready to put a cap in his motherfucking ass!"

"Sir," Ennis grins when he reads his new text message. "Kali has him."

John grins, mood drastically changing, brightening. "Have her bring him in."

"I'll take care of it." Ennis nods, already leaving the office.

+

"Hey, how do I open the windows back here?" Chris grunts with annoyance when he tries to roll down the window, but can't find the lever.

"I have to do it." Kali says, reaching forward and pressed the button, rolling the window down halfway.

"Thanks."

Kali watches him through the rear-view mirror as he pulls on a hoodie and zips it up. "Hey, mister?"

"What?" Chris mumbles, clearly not paying attention to her. After all, he's got more important things to think about. Like running for his fucking life.

"You were the guy in that fight tonight, right?" Kali asks casually. "The fight that's been all over the radio - you're one of the fighters, right?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Chris snorts, half amused as he shoves his boxing gloves into his rucksack.

Kali smiles to herself, eyes focussed back on the road. "No, c'mon, I know you're him... Tell me that you're him."

"Alright," Chris shrugs. "Then, I'm him."

Kali nods, glancing back into the mirror. "And you killed the other guy, right?"

Chris meets the reflection of her eyes. "He's dead?"

Kali's surprised by the look of guilt that flashes in his bright, blue orbs, and she actually feels sorry for him. "The radio said he was dead, yeah."

Chris simply nods and leans back in his seat, staring out of the open window.

After a few moments, Kali can't help asking, "What does it feel like?" because she's a Beta, she's never killed anybody. Maybe maimed a little... But never killed.

"What?" Chris sighs tiredly.

"To kill a man."

"Well, I didn't even know he was dead until you just told me." Chris replies calmly - he's no stranger to compartmentalising, he's a ex-hunter, after all.

"Okay," Kali nods in understanding. "But now that you do know, how does it feel? How does it feel to know that you beat a man single-handedly to death?"

Chris arches a brow, but ever calmly, politely even, asks, "Are you some kind of weirdo?"

"No," Kali shakes her head, chuckles lightly. "It's just a particular, granted, odd, interest that I have. So... Can you tell me what it feels like?"

Chris chuckles, too, shakes his head. "Do you smoke?"

"Yes."

"Well, how about you gimme one of your smokes, and I'll tell you all about it?"

"Deal!" Kali nods eagerly, and grins excitedly as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out two cigarettes.

Chris nods curtly as she lights them both and hands him one. "So," He breathes out a cloud of smoke as he leans back in his seat. "My name's Chris. What's your's, gorgeous?"

He knows she's a werewolf, but he also doesn't care, is nothing like his monster of a father a psycho of a big sister.

Besides, he's done worse things than sleep with werewolves, or even vampires...

Yeah, he's stooped that low since his daughter's; his world's death.

"Kali." She blushes lightly, cursing herself mentally at how easily she's sucked into his eyes and charming, tiny wrinkles and dimples. "Well, actually, my real name is Esmerelda, which means; 'of the wolves'."

Chris chuckles, both of them blowing out more smoke as she grins proudly. "That's one heck of a name you got there."

"Thank you." Kali smiles, seems rather bashful all of a sudden. "So, what about your name? Chris? What does that mean?"

"We're Americans in this country, honey." Chris snorts lightly. "Names don't mean shit for us. Anyway, back onto the last topic - what exactly is it that you wanna know?"

Kali sighs, her tone serious as she dubs out her finished smoke in the ashtray. "I just wanna know one thing - did you really not mean to kill that guy?"

Chris shoots her an odd look, but replies. "Yes." He then, scowls, looks slightly offended. "I'm not a murderer."

Kali nods, suddenly pulls the car over and turns in her seat to look at him. "I know that you're a hunter, that you're an Argent."

Chris narrows his eyes at her. "Who are you?"

Kali sighs heavily. "Don't kill me, but I work for John Stilinski... Well, kind of."

"Kind of?" Chris is half glaring at her.

"I'm trying to break my way outta Hell, it's a working progress, but I don't have time to tell you any of that, it's not important." Kali shoots him a meaningful look. "The fact is, I knew your daughter; Allison." She smiles softly. "She saved me from Jennifer; my psycho ex-girlfriend, just a few years before Ennis and Stilinski found me."

Chris doesn't really know what to think right now.

"Look, we don't have much time, but this is as far as I can take you. We're in Malibu."

Chris glances around, then, turns back to her, looking confused. "You're seriously helping me? Just because my daughter saved your life? Won't Stilinski cut your ass in half?"

Kali nods. "Yeah, if he ever finds out. Which he won't, because you're going to shoot me with a wolfsbane bullet."

"What?" Chris looks slightly alarmed, then sceptical once more. "Why?"

"Well, because Stilinski knows I'm with you, so if I go back unscathed, I literally might as well just kill myself right now."

Chris stares thoughtfully back at her before nodding. "Yeah, no, that's... That's a good point."

Kali can help smiling when she scents the concern now washing over him. "Don't worry, pretty boy, Ennis won't let me die, and we've got surprisingly got healthcare for our line of work."

Chris merely shoots her a withering look.


End file.
